As Fate Would Have it
by RuthieGreen
Summary: Prequel to Mystery at Flower Inn. What would happen if William, Julia, George & Thomas each made just one significant choice that altered the stream of their lives but Fate still inevitably, inexorably brought them together anyway? How do they meet? How would they be different & how would they still be the same? Enjoy the mystery & the twist. Thanx to Maureen & the show writers
1. Chapter 1

_**Dear Reader:**_

 _ **What would happen if William, Julia, George and Thomas (and other characters) each made just one significant choice that altered the stream of their life ~ but Fate would still inevitably, inexorably bring them together anyway? How would they be different and how would they still be the same? Set in the same turn-of-the-century Toronto, but a slightly different timeline/universe…. (FYI: I have taken many liberties with dialogue directly from the show.)**_

 _ **What if: William attends Seminary after all, but leaves before taking vows?**_

 _ **What if: Julia drops out of medical school and marries the man who impregnates her?**_

 _ **What if: Thomas is persuaded to leave the constabulary and join Margaret's father's plumbing business?**_

 _ **What if: George gives up being a chimney sweep and follows one of his aunties to Toronto and opens an Inn?**_

 _ **How will our heroes fare?**_

 _Thank you Lovemondays for 'your' character-You'd make anyone a great best friend! Thanx to "Dutch" for the beta-read and IdBeDelighted for getting me unstuck. Thank you also Maureen Jennings and the show writers for letting us play in their world and with these remarkable characters._

 _Enjoy the mystery and the twist._

" **As Fate Would Have It"**

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 **Fate:** _noun._ **1)** the ultimate agency that predetermines the course of events; **2)** the inevitable fortune that befalls a person or thing; destiny; **3)** the end or final result; **4)** a calamitous or unfavourable outcome or result; death, destruction or downfall.

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 _The story is for Voltaire63—because she asked for it. Rest in Peace._

 _Author's Note: This is a prequel to "Mystery at Flower Inn."_

 **-Chapter 0ne-**

 _ **Friday June 30, 1899**_

 _ **~ Cabbagetown**_

 _Even her muffled sobs could be heard through the thin walls…_

"Now, Mrs. Tough, you just have a good cry, then let me see what is going on, if that is all right with you?" Julia used her most tender and no-nonsense voice to soothe the tearful woman sitting with her on a narrow bed. She noticed the fading red marks on her patient's face and a purpling under one eye, however she was more concerned about the blows to the woman's abdomen and the fever in her pock-marked face.

As with any call where all she got was an urgent message to "come quickly," Julia had raced over to this cramped, airless set of rooms not knowing exactly what she was going to find, but prepared to do her best. Usually it was to help a woman in childbirth, sometimes a sick child. Every once in a while she was asked to tend a woman who was experiencing a miscarriage; Julia knew quite well a portion of those women were suffering from the effects of abortion, but she did not judge, only helped. She handled all of them professionally, with patience and tender care whether the outcome was joy or sorrow. The worst ones were like this: It was awfully hard to refrain from showing anger towards the man responsible, knowing it would only add to the woman's burden. Mastering her rage, Julia only asked: "When did you say your husband did this?"

"Wednesday," Katie sniffed. "He comes home in a rage, arguin' about having relations with me an' about my leaflettin' for the women's union. I argued back an' he starts punchin' me, kicked me hard. I tells him to stop because I thought I might be carryin' again." Julia saw her tear up, the red marks on her face getting darker. "Then he calls me a slut because I'd been wantin' a break from him. That's when I told him that's OK, I never want another of your whelps again an' I throws him out!"

Julia gently felt the woman's belly and asked about the cramping and the clotted blood. During the first trimester miscarriages were not uncommon, but because of the bony protection of a woman's pelvis, the womb was not as exposed to blows from the outside. Miscarriages at this stage can easily go unremarked. In the second trimmester however, a fall or an assault risked causing a spontaneous abortion. The real danger is when there was an incomplete expelling of the fetus and placenta, resulting in infection. "What happened today, then?"

"I felt in a bad way an' got scared when I sees all that blood, so time comes I sends a boy to the exchange to call and fetch you." She grabbed Julia's hand in a tight grip. "You was so good to me when he went after me, all drunk after Dominion Day last year, me still nursin' my Sarah - I just knew you'd come. After I calls you, my husband, he come by again, all sayin' he's sorry an' he sees what a state I'm in. The bastard gots even angrier, accusin' me of all sorts, mad at the world he were! I tells him this is all his fault for hittin' me an' instead of helpin' me, he shoves me down again and took off, leavin' me moanin' in pain." She sniffed again, dragging her sleeve over red eyes and under her nose. "Will I lose this 'un?"

Julia could not decide if Mrs. Tough wanted a baby under these circumstances or not, considering that Katie reliably produced a healthy child for her common-law husband nearly every year of their 'marriage,' wearing the woman out by birthing five children since the age of seventeen. She looked hard at her patient: Katie was only twenty three but differences their lives added two decades to the other woman's appearance with deep lines bracketing her eyes and mouth. Julia was painfully reminded how frustrating it was that all she could legally suggest to prevent pregnancy were useless iron tinctures, breastfeeding as long as possible and timing relations to when a woman was thought to be less fertile. _As if her 'husband' would refrain._

 _How ironic it is to be having such a conversation with one of my patients._ She bit her lip. _Quite the opposite problem from mine._

Mrs. Tough was holding her breath, waiting for an answer. Julia searched her patient's frightened face and considered the evidence collected in bloody sheets and a chamber pot, her own womb wrenching in sympathy. With compassion, she took the woman's damp hand: "Katie…I think you already have…"

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 _ **Rosedale**_

 _ **~ Ogden Residence**_

Acting Detective Hamish Slorach entered the stately Ogden residence through tall, white-painted front doors. Removing his hat, he glanced nervously into a fine mirror hanging by the opening, slicked down the center part in his hair and frowned benignly at what he saw: heavy jowls and a slightly rumpled suit.

He was only three months on the job and this was his first murder case, acutely aware he suffered the scrutiny of not just his new boss but of Chief Constable Giles, since Giles took an interest in the legacy of station four. He greeted Constable John Hodge who was already on site organizing the lads. Initially Slorach chaffed at Inspector Lamb not so subtly assigning the grey-haired Hodge as a 'minder,' however today he was grateful for the older man's steadiness and wisdom.

Hodge motioned him into a wide light-filled central hall, pointing to a door on the right which held the deceased. The birds-eye maple foyer contained an upholstered bench beneath a lively sea-scape, and across from it was a framed photograph of three people, hung over a table with a telephone on it. Inspector Lamb had cautioned him to be diplomatic, considering the social standing of the victim and family, so the impressive house was not a surprise.

To his left in a small reception room, were a pair of women in contrasting emotional states: the older plump one, perhaps in her sixties, was white-faced with tears still forming in her eyes. The other woman, a much younger, bird-like creature, was red-faced and muttering agitatedly.

Constable Hodge began in a soothing, yet firm voice: "Ladies, this is Acting Detective Slorach. Detective, this is Mrs. Davis Roundtree, a patient, and this Mrs. Olave Hastings, the Ogden's housekeeper. Mrs. Roundtree found the body when she entered the consultation room across the hall, about ten past two. She then roused the housekeeper, Mrs. Hastings, by knocking on the door separating the offices from the residence and together they rang the constabulary on the house's private line. The call came in at quarter after. Neither lady says she heard anything." Constable Hodge would have continued except Mrs. Roundtree interrupted.

"My appointment was at two o'clock and I am not used to being kept waiting! I told your constable all I know of this disgusting matter. Now, detective, please, allow me to go home. My carriage is waiting. This has all been too terrible!" She thrust her narrow chin up defiantly and her eyes were wide with too much of the whites showing.

Slorach could not decide if the woman was truly offended or just in shock—perhaps a little of both. He gave her the once-over the way he'd size up a hound: A lady like this was unlikely to have ever spoken with a police officer before in her entire life, let alone found a dead body with its attendant physical mess. Securing her particulars, she was sent on her way with a request to be available for follow up questions. Since the housekeeper was reasonably well-composed and content to remain, he shrugged then took himself to the scene of the crime.

The detective saw a simple set up in the consultation room: a desk placed in front of open lace-curtained French windows, two chairs, and behind a privacy screen were an examination table and wash stand. Several filing cabinets lined one wall. Closed pocket doors opposite the windows appeared to divide this room from another. The white curtains barely moved whilst the detective took in a deep breath—a faint scent of tar from outside was carried in to disturb the unmistakable smells of carbolic mixed with lemon furniture wax. Constable Hodge appeared at his elbow to take notes.

A dark-haired man, dressed in a long white coat over a light grey suit, was lying on the floor in front of an oak desk. A stethoscope was beside him. This time the detective _was_ surprised. Instead of a blood-spattered tableau, the thin body was nearly pristine- only a small hole in the forehead and some blood, not the bits of brain and bone he expected. He made a note of the position of the body then turned the corpse's head slightly and determined there was no exit wound.

Slorach rose to come 'round the desk to check out the angles and examine the appointment calendar. He did not see Mrs. Roundtree's name listed. "Not a suicide, then. No weapon by the body, but we need to make sure no one tidied up in an effort to protect the doctor's reputation," he offered somewhat sarcastically, surveying the room. "No signs of forced entry."

Hodge agreed, sharing his own observations. "No sir, but since the doors were unlocked that does not mean much; the windows are open and the sash-plate unmarred and I'd say perhaps six feet from the ground. No obvious disarray in this room."

Slorach formed his fingers into the shape of a gun, pointing across the desk. "Not much of a shot to hit someone from this close up. I know my bullets: that looks like a .22 calibre from the size of that entry hole there, wouldn't you say? I wonder why no exit wound. Did you find any shell casings, or the murder weapon, by any chance?"

Hodge smiled. "No, sir. The housekeeper says she was just coming up from the cellar when she heard pounding on the door and found Dr. Walters dead. She says she touched nothing, says she knew better than to disturb anything after working for Dr. Ogden so many years; also knew Dr. Walters was dead for the same reason."

"Anyone else in the house?" he asked, wondering exactly what all Mrs. Hastings knew.

"No sir. Not as either of the ladies was aware. Mrs. Roundtree says there were no other patients when she got here and Constable Higgins and the men searched the house and grounds for anyone who might be hiding."

"What additional information did you get? Is this a big medical practice the doctor was a part of?" Slorach wondered aloud.

"The Ogden Wellness Center consists of Dr. Lionel Ogden and the deceased, his son in law Dr. Joseph Walters. Dr. Ogden's daughter, Mrs. Julia Walters, functions as a nurse and mid-wife for the practice." Hodge flipped through his notebook. "Dr. Walters' calendar is in the adjoining office. It says he was to see a Mr. Redhook at one o'clock. Mrs. Roundtree was Dr. Walters' last patient of the day."

Slorach gestured at the corpse. "Hodge, how long do you think he's been dead?"

Hodge had no timetable in his mind, but he knew what death looked like after all these years. "I'd say at least a couple hours since he's just getting stiff in his jaw and neck, but the heat may be playing havoc with that."

"Thank God I'm not a coroner," Slorach joked while pulling at his collar, getting a knowing laugh from Hodge. He consulted a wall clock and lowered his voice. "It's three-thirty now. Constable Hodge, er…what do you suppose we should do next?"

Hodge lowered his voice as well, aiming for discretion. "Sir, we should conduct a thorough search of Dr. Ogden's house, interior and exterior. We are looking for the murder weapon and any other evidence pertaining to the case. Next I think we locate Mr. Redhook then send the lads around to take witness statements from the neighbors—see if anyone heard or saw anything amiss, perhaps someone fleeing the area?"

"Yes. And search the grounds for any evidence, foot prints, or a discarded weapon etcetera. I am thinking small hand gun, something easily concealed. And if you think we have the trail of a fleeing assailant y'know my dog 'Betty' and I can track 'em!" The detective found himself rather hoping that was the case—he often preferred the investigative company of his canine to his human co-workers. "We will have to interview the family of course and find out who had a grudge against the doctor."

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Hastings says Dr. Ogden is expected back for the evening meal. She is not exactly sure where Mrs. Walters is, only that she received an urgent call, took the pony trap and is expected home after a house visit at four this afternoon on a patient at the Flower Inn. Shall we wait for Mrs. Walters here?" Hodge asked.

Detective Slorach thought about it then shook his head. This was part of the job he hated, but it went with his new position. "No. I think I will pass the rest of the work here off to you, constable, but I will finish interviewing the housekeeper myself. Then I will go greet the widow and give her the bad news." He clapped his hands, unconsciously rubbing them together. "We are looking for someone who is particularly bloody-minded even if they left no mess, eh Hodge?"

Hodge nodded, then called out to Constable Burke and the other lads. "Oy! I want you to look in every shrub, and under every stone. We need to find the murder weapon."

Slorach was getting excited _…The hunt is on!_

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Author's Note: Hi there! Hope you like the story so far. When I first started reading these I had no idea how it all worked—I had to be bold enough to ask a lot of questions and fortunately very kind people helped me out. So for my story or any other one you read, if you "Like" the story…you can show that by "Following the story"—you will get alerts when additional chapters are posted—or "Favoriting" the story. It is rather the equivalent of "liking" a Facebook post and is very encouraging to me and other writers, especially if you are not yet inclined (yet!) to type a "Review." So—to "Like" a story, go to the top right of the page where you will see a "heart" and it says "Follow/Fav" Click on that and you will get a box to choose from. It is easy to do and I know I truly appreciate any feedback on my stories. It always helps me do better the next time. -rg


	2. Chapter 2

_**~ Cabbagetown**_

 _Sad. I am sad and angry._ Julia snapped the reins to get her pony moving in the heat which seemed to radiate from the building walls like an oven in the narrow laneway, the pony's hooves stirring up even more grit and dust spewing from near-by factories. Her shoulders ached with tension. For eight years she'd nursed women, presiding at dozens of lying-ins, and the loss of a patient or her child was always painful. What made it worse, Katie Tough (as well as her remaining children) were vulnerable with or without her husband's presence, and Julia was worried next time Katie's husband might finally kill her; the dilemma was that the woman begged Julia to remain silent out of a different fear. _How in the world will we live?_ Mrs. Tough asked quite sensibly about her fate if her husband were to be jailed.

Julia, was therefore not feeling very charitable towards the world's treatment of women at the moment and was careful not to take it out on the horse. _If not the world, then_ _men_ _._ She muttered to herself, aware she was being absurd. _Or maybe be not_ _all_ _men, but it is usually men!_ She glared at a passing carriage driver, certain he had no idea why. _And it does not matter a woman's station in society, the men in her world will dictate her life!_ Her inattention to her driving caused the trap to lurch left. _Damn it!_

She took in a huge breath and exhaled her frustration.

 _Calm down, Julia,_ she muttered to herself. _I can just hear Father chastising my emotionality…besides I should know better by now._

At least the arguments she had with _her_ husband on the subject of having children never rose to violence. Julia turned her thoughts forcefully to the fathers, husbands and male colleagues with whom she was happily acquainted.

 _There are good men in this world, as difficult, frustrating and obtuse as they may be…_

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 _ **Garden District**_

 _ **~ The Flower Inn**_

William Murdoch rounded the corner on his wheel then picked up momentum as he sped south down Sherbourne. He _was_ rather pleased with himself at the moment, allowing a smile to linger at the corners of his mouth as his legs pumped, pushing for more speed. A decade and a half ago he'd turned his back on the priesthood, instead pouring his life and considerable talents into teaching and it was finally paying off at the premier college preparatory school in Toronto. Earlier in the day he interviewed with Sommerbank Academy's full board of trustees about being officially appointed Headmaster come September, replacing the venerable, but it turned out not _immortal_ Mr. Cecil Rowland.

William liked his odds. He'd answered the trustee's questions, modestly admitting his record as the youngest tenured teacher and youngest head of a department. The trustees themselves praised him as being well-respected by students, faculty and parents for his leadership and teaching ability. He could point to a steady growth of new students to the campus because of the rigor of the upper-school science curriculum, as well as an increase in Sommerbank graduates getting into the finest colleges and universities. He offered himself as a candidate of integrity, excellent reputation, loyalty to the school, innovative, dependable, and in contrast to their previous Headmaster, _sound of mind and body._ The trustees already appreciated him for stepping in over the last six months or so while Cecil Rowland was failing, then taking the reins after he died. William thought they'd overlook his current unmarried state and was hopeful over the years he'd proved his faith was not a barrier to ultimate advancement at such a Protestant institution.

He passed the Horticultural grounds with its smell of new-mown grass, then swung right on Gerard, stopping two blocks down at the corner of George Street in front of his lodgings, to take in a deep, satisfied breath. _All in all this was a good day_ , he reckoned.

Placing his bicycle in the rear stables, he fished a timepiece out of his waistcoat, pleased at how fast the travel from Sommerbank was today and with the cool breeze the trip afforded him. His thumb stroked the rounded back of his watch, where this characteristic gesture was wearing down fine engraving on the case. ' _For William on your birthday. With love, Liza.'_ The watch was her gift to him in 1893.

Of course he knew that Liza herself was the best present he'd ever received. The memories were dear: a chance meeting at the local library on his birthday in '92 with Liza Milner boldly introducing herself to him. Six months of courtship suited them both- Liza no longer had to teach in the worst of Toronto's public schools and as a married man, William and his new bride were able to take up a coveted residence at Sommerbank, settling into an academic life of teaching, experimentation and intellectual pursuits for him, and for Liza the role of wife, day-school teacher and House-mother for boarding students. All that was missing was children of their own to raise, so that when Jack and Marguerite came into their lives after the tragic deaths of their parents, he and Liza were eager to take the responsibility on: being guardians to the pair of intelligent, auburn-haired siblings completed their happiness.

 _Liza would have been so proud of this promotion_ , he thought. She had been his greatest supporter, making his life comfortable and happy with her soft, quiet ways, their marriage being one full of tender love, contentment and friendship.

William allowed a small sigh—the past year and a half had been an excruciating descent and slow, painful recovery after her death. Piece by frayed piece, he had braided his life back together, perhaps emerging stronger at the raw and broken places he'd felt in his heart and soul. It certainly felt better to have a logical, methodical plan for his future: appointment as permanent Headmaster, marriage, then moving back to the home he made for himself teaching young minds at Sommerbank.

Unstrapping his satchel from the bicycle, William headed up into the Flower Inn's back door with a bounce in his step, anticipating his four o'clock tea. He made his way through the service area, saying hello to Mrs. Kitchen on his way by into the spacious dining room and on towards the common room at the front of the Inn. He breezed by, hearing laughter float through the space.

"What have you, Mr. Crabtree?" William called out pleasantly. The Flower Inn's proprietor was waving goodbye to one of his regular afternoon patrons, obviously fresh from telling another amusing story. William seldom understood the jokes, but appreciated the warm, intelligent man who told them as it made him an excellent host. William looked up the front stairs the by the common room's fire place, noticing his landlord's dogs were not in evidence. "Are our families not yet back from the Toronto Islands?" he guessed.

George Crabtree, with sleeves rolled and up dressed in one of the colourful waistcoats he affected, was behind the front desk, seeming to perpetually polish a section of the wooden surface. He offered a trademark lopsided smile in return. "Hullo Mr. Murdoch. I must say it is good to see you're in such fine fettle this afternoon. No…I don't expect Edna back 'till well past five, that's why Mrs. Kitchen is helping out. Time enough for your tea and to relax before we are inundated by the twins! I'm so grateful for Miss Marguerite and Master Jack- my three year old girls can be little terrors." He hiked a thumb towards the Inn's kitchen as he handed today's post over to his boarder. "Ah…Looks like you have another missive from Mrs. Campbell. Seems, like me, she's written a novel by now…"

William searched his mail for a letter from the Patent Office when he spied a familiar cream-coloured envelope amongst his correspondence and journals, ignoring the gentle ribbing and refusing to take the bait. "Mrs. Campbell is indeed an excellent correspondent, Mr. Crabtree." He was not about to add to his landlord's curiosity about the marriageable ladies who put themselves across his path over the past months. William planned to make a wise and responsible decision about remarriage, to find an appropriate wife for the position to which he aspired at Sommerbank. Liza had made him promise to find love again however much he protested the contrary to her, and he remained deeply skeptical about another love match. Instead, he'd settle for an intelligent, companionable woman who was willing to take on Jack, Marguerite and the academic life. More than that, William hoped for a son or daughter of his own, so he was looking for a young woman who could give him that as well. Although he was not _yet,_ of course, officially courting her having only recently ended his mourning year, the Widow Campbell had a young daughter which gave William hope. To Mr. Crabtree he merely smiled…nothing was going to spoil his mood today. "Is tea laid on yet?"

"My wife has your favorite scones baked up with a nice marmalade, and Mrs. Kitchen will get your tea, although why you insist on hot tea when the weather is so warm I'll never understand."

"Because the tea will bring on a little heat and then the body will work to cool itself down even more." This was one of the familiar pieces of banter between them over the last year the teacher or so had lived at the Inn: George Crabtree asks a challenging, sometimes wildly speculating question, and William Murdoch counters with a scientific rationale. Yesterday it was about the possibility of a weapon like Jules Vern's Fulgurator which George hoped to base his next story on. The day before it was the possibility of reanimating mummies.

Then they agree to disagree, on friendly terms.

"How is your story coming?" William inquired. "Did you get any news from your publisher?"

George's face opened into a wide grin. "Indeed I did. Mrs. Talbot, my editor, has sent it back to me for final revisions so I am quite pleased. And what brings on _your_ good mood, if I may ask? Not merely the end of the school term is it?"

William ignored the wink his landlord threw his way-Mrs. Campbell was definitely not open to discussion. However, he saw no reason not to share his news from Sommerbank, if he could figure out how not to boast. "Well, there are a couple things. One of our graduates received a full scholarship to Yale University in the States."

"Ah, was it a young man you mentored? No wonder young Jack was going on about trying for a scholarship. A little healthy competition," George guessed his boarder was not going to discuss his love life, or lack thereof…

"Quite." William smiled. "Yale is the _alma mater_ of one of our trustees, Mr. Pendrick, and the trustees are considering me for…"

William saw his landlord's brow wrinkle over kindly eyes, obviously distracted entirely from their conversation. He swiveled to the Inn's entrance to take in a rather blocky-looking gentleman sweating inside a brown mustache, beard, mutton-chops and brown wool suit topped by a dusty homburg, making a bee-line for the service desk and parking himself expectantly in front of Mr. Crabtree.

"Are you the proprietor?" the newcomer asked.

"Yes I am, George Crabtree, at your service. Welcome to the Flower Inn. I hope you are not wanting a room, we are full up at the moment, but tea is being served and I can seat you now," George said hopefully.

Opening his jacket to reveal a silver badge, the man explained. "Acting Detective Hamish Slorach. I am here to see Mrs. Joseph Walters."

William's mind took a moment to recognize who the man was seeking while automatically sorting through his vast store of minutiae, dragging up that _Slorach_ was an ancient and uncommon Scots derivation, before he questioned what the constabulary wanted. He looked at Mr. Crabtree's worried face, then back to the detective with a mild alarm growing within him.

Mrs. Kitchen approached at that moment, wiping her hands on a sturdy white apron. "Your tea is at your usual table, Mr. Murdoch. I heard you asking after Mrs. Walters," she directed this last to the newcomer. "What's this about? Nurse Ogden is coming here to see me; why are _you_ here to see _her_?"

"Detective Slorach, this is Mrs. Beatrice Kitchen. This gentleman is Mr. William Murdoch, one of my residents." George made introductions. "Perhaps you can tell us what this is all about."

Slorach hesitated then cleared his throat. Since it was hardly going to be a secret for very long, it made no sense to make up a story about it, so he decided just to say it: "I am here to inform her that her husband is deceased."

"Dear Lord!" Mrs. Kitchen immediately gasped, clutching her employer for support and blessing herself. William and his landlord gave each other shocked looks.

"Detective, can you tell us the circumstances?" George offered Mrs. Kitchen a glass of water while asking.

"I'd rather explain it first to the new widow, if you don't mind and a private area to speak with her if possible. I assume she will be here soon?"

William was surprised at how swiftly time seemed to shift underneath his feet, bringing on a flash of that hollowed out feeling he thought had filled in over the last year. "Detective," William spoke up quietly. "If you have no objection, I'd like to be the one to tell her about her husband."

The detective shook his head. "I'm afraid it is official business." William saw himself being studied. Pointing to the wedding ring on his hand, Slorach asked: "Who are you to be so familiar with Mrs. Walters? Are you and your wife close friends of the doctor and his wife?"

Flushing slightly, William fingered the gold band, symbol of six precious years with Liza. "No, detective, not in the way you might think. A year ago, Nurse Ogden, er…. Mrs. Walters," he corrected himself, "was the one to tell me, very gently, that my own wife had passed away; I would merely like permission to return the kindness."

Mrs. Kitchen, George Crabtree and William all pressed the matter. Detective Slorach reluctantly agreed, saying he did not see the harm in it, as long as the detective could observe and give the actual details.

Just then William saw a tall slender woman in her early thirties stride through the Inn's doors, dressed in a long carriage duster over an unadorned grey dress, her hair captured under a dark grey Bellevue cap instead of the typically white one. She carried a second white coat over one elbow and a Gladstone bag hung from her other strong arm. The woman came forward, striking blue eyes sweeping the room. William thought he detected her oval face lighting up when she spied who waited for her. "Mr. Murdoch, what a nice surprise."

William heard her strong voice and it was difficult not to smile back at her, ensnared as he was by her gaze. Since Liza's funeral, they never exchanged more than a superficial greeting. Instead he spoke gravely. "Nurse Ogden, I need to speak with you. Now."

"Is everything all right?" Nurse Ogden seemed unsuspecting, but her bright expression was fading at the unusual request.

For a brief moment, William wished he had not volunteered to bring pain to someone he admired, especially heartbreak he knew so well. He beckoned her to a quiet table and seated her, murmuring she should prepare herself for some sad tidings. By this time it was obvious she knew something was wrong.

"Nurse Ogden, I am so very sorry to have to tell you this. I have been informed that your husband, Dr. Walters, has died." William said plainly in a soft, measured tone. "The constabulary is here to speak with you."

The hair on Julia's neck rose and a shiver flooded over her skin. _What did he just say? I do not understand._ Her mind was unable to absorb the meaning behind the words, but the rest of her was already reacting. She looked steadily into Mr. Murdoch's deep brown eyes and found no rescue there, only empathy and grief. _Oh my God._ She was not even aware of tears flowing until a white handkerchief was put into her hand. Seeing it there tore a sob from her throat.

Detective Slorach quietly observed the interaction, looking for anything that was not as it should be.

"Did…did Joseph take his own life?" Julia found herself asking.

The detective stepped in, his interest piqued. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought he was not quite himself of late." Julia dabbed her eyes. "Is that what you are trying to tell me?"

William winced. _Self-murder is a sin, but here is the worst part._ Detective Slorach seemed to be paying close attention to how Nurse Ogden responded. "No. This detective believes he was killed by a person or persons unknown."

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	3. Chapter 3

**~ Chapter Three ~**

" _Murdered?"_ She asked incredulously when the detective explained her husband had been shot. "My God! When did this happen?" Julia heard the shrill in her own voice as if it belonged to someone else.

Slorach answered. "While you were out of the house on your nursing rounds today."

"I don't believe it. Who would kill Joseph?" Julia directed that accusation at the detective. Mr. Crabtree unobtrusively brought a stiff drink over to the table to steady her nerves, which she tasted and then downed.

"You were making a sick call?" Slorach requested confirmation.

"Yes, I…I was assessing a patient." Julia produced a fresh burst of tears, realizing she was tending another when her husband needed her the most. After composing herself, she apologized for her outburst. "I, I'm sorry but I need to contact Joseph's parents…"

"Nurse Ogden…" William tried to keep her in her seat, but she rose and stood with her fists bunched.

She looked pleadingly at William and then appealed to the detective. "Please. I need to do this."

William rose with her. "Detective I will accompany her home and see she gets there safely."

"And I'll see to Jack and Marguerite when they come back," Mr. Crabtree offered.

The detective put a hand up.

"Is there something else?" William hovered protectively.

Slorach answered. "Is there a gun in the house, a hand gun?"

Julia blinked. "No, no gun."

"Do you know anyone who would wish to harm your husband, Mrs. Walters? Did he have any enemies? Disgruntled patients perhaps?"

Julia slowly shook her head. "No, of course not. He was an excellent physician…" She answered automatically, then cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "Is there more, detective?"

Detective Slorach spoke kindly. "Unfortunately, yes. As the next of kin I must ask you to officially identify your husband's remains."

Julia focused on keeping her head up and back straight on the journey to the morgue. Once there, she descended down a concrete ramp into a high-ceilinged white room, only faltering once as the gurney was brought out. A far away part of her mind noticed that no autopsy had begun; no incisions to open up the chest cavity. Her mouth went dry when the sheet was pulled back, revealing her husband's face, with a small hole in Joseph's forehead: her eyes fixed there. She only vaguely recognized someone calling her name, a stupor enveloping her.

"Mrs. Walters, I said can you please make your identification, for the record."

She nodded and uttered the required statement, her mouth as dry as the road she traversed to make it: "Yes. That is my husband, Dr. Joseph Walters."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **~ Toronto Constabulary, Station No. 4, 2 Wilton Street**_

Slorach was thoughtful as he made his way across the laneway to the station house, where the shift was ending for the day. He stood in front of his boss and reported.

"What do you think, detective? Murder in the course of a robbery? A fight?" Inspector Malcolm Lamb gestured to the chair across from his desk for his man to rest and discuss the facts. Hamish Slorach was not particularly intuitive, a characteristic Lamb thought was useful in law enforcement, but Slorach _was_ dogged, which would have to do.

"No sir, I don't think so. There are no signs of a disturbance of any kind although there could have been a confrontation of some sort. I think someone, someone he knew, shot him face to face with a small caliber weapon." Slorach grimaced. "Would not take much talent up close to do the deed."

The inspector pointed out, "That would take some guts to do, however."

Slorach agreed. "According to Mrs. Hastings the medical practice was a busy one and its doors stayed open and unattended. Anyone could have waltzed right in. The house is substantial, even with windows open it would have muffled the sounds—and Constable Hodge says roofers were packing up for the day just as he pulled up. No one would have heard anything against all that hammering. He and the lads are getting witness statements to determine if anyone saw anything, but no luck so far." The acting detective's shoulders slumped as he opened his empty hands in a frustrated gesture.

Lamb wondered if the affable Slorach was ready for every gritty detail of leading a murder investigation and how long it could take to obtain justice. _How determined is he to keep that detective's shield he wears?_

"Detective, did you know what case made my career? The one which secured _my_ promotion to detective?" He gestured to have his companion take some of the cold water he kept on the desk.

Slorach hesitated then took a full glass and drank it down. "No, sir, I don't believe I know that story."

"It was the rape and murder of Harriette King almost two decades ago when I was just a young constable. It took me two years of hounding the weakest link before I got a confession, eventually sending two men to the gallows and one to prison for the crime." Lamb remembered how his life had been obsessed with the investigation. _Two years that nearly cost me my wife—and my soul._

He leaned his white head over the desk separating them and gave his best pieces of advice: "Eventually, I was smart enough not to think I had to do it all on my own." Lamb continued with a steady brown gaze, hoping Slorach was listening: "Patience, detective. Use your resources. Proceed carefully, since the victim was well-placed in Toronto Society even though he married into it. No cutting corners! The victim's father in law, Dr. Lionel Ogden, is widely known and respected by the constabulary. He's been coroner on cases I've worked on in the past—he does not suffer fools, I believe the saying goes. See what Dr. Walters was up to. In my experience things are rarely as they appear on the surface and when you dig you will bring up muck. Find out what the autopsy reveals and do your investigation. Report any developments back to me."

Lamb dismissed his detective and watched the man lumber out into the bullpen to confer with his constables who were trailing in from the crime scene. He was glad that, of all people, Constable John Hodge was assisting on this one—one last big case for Hodge before a well-deserved promotion to desk sergeant. Lamb had the paperwork submitted and approved, merely waiting for the letter of appointment to be signed.

Closing up his own office for the day and heading home to Sarah, the inspector imagined Dr. Walters' final moments of life and shuddered: _Who could have possibly wanted Joseph Walters dead so badly and had the stones to look him in the eye and pull the trigger then, apparently, calmly walk away…?_

He cleared his head with a shake. _Ultimately it will be up to the detective to do the work_. Lamb looked at the clock: six thirty. _Slorach has a long night ahead of him._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **Rosedale**_

 _ **~ Ogden Residence**_

Julia Ogden Walters did not feel the bump and clatter of cobblestones beneath the pony-trap's wheels, only barely aware of William Murdoch's hip against her own on the small seat. Numbness was settling through to encompass all her senses, barely registering the streets and avenues bringing her closer and closer to her home while her medical training vaguely warned her she was likely slipping into some sort of psychological shock, while simultaneously being disgusted with herself for a lack of fortitude.

 _Joseph is dead,_ repeated itself. _What will we do?_

She was startled when Mr. Murdoch uttered a soft, "You are home…" and offered to hand her down outside the family entrance on the side of the house. She was slightly bewildered, taking his warm hand in hers to descend to the gravel drive. _How did I get here so soon?_

She almost leaned against him, then Mrs. Hastings appeared at the screen door, opening it wide as Julia found her footing and mounted the stairs on the teacher's strong arm. Her father appeared as well, and between the three of them, they guided Julia to a seat at the kitchen table where the housekeeper poured a glass of water for Julia to drink. "Thank you Mrs. Hastings," she murmured.

William saw distress in the housekeeper and that Dr. Ogden was white-faced with a tremor in his hands. Nurse Ogden was tearing up again. As much as he might wish to stay, he expressed polite condolences and made to go; clearly this was too private a time for outsiders as her housekeeper and father consoled the new widow.

Julia roused herself to shrug off the solicitous support. "Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, for your assistance." She searched around for her medical bag, which magically appeared in the teacher's hand. She had no recall of gathering it up, making a face of frustration. "And, if you would, please ask Mrs. Kitchen to accept my apologies. I seem to have forgotten to give her her treatment…"

"That is for another time," William countered, the ache of his own loss surfacing in sympathy. "I will see to the carriage and take my leave now."

Dr. Ogden nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Murdoch. Tell Mrs. Kitchen perhaps Sunday or Monday? I am sure we can take care of the nursing matter then." With that, William was dismissed.

Julia heard Mr. Murdoch quietly close the screen door behind him, feeling surprised at the loss of his presence. She studied her father, who seemed devastated about Joseph's death- her father appeared _old,_ old and tired. _I suppose I must look the same,_ she admitted to herself, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers, wondering idly where it came from.

Mrs. Hastings flitted between her and Father. As many times as Julia had attended the final moment of a life, even broken the terrible news to a grief-stricken family, this was the first time death had brushed her so closely in the twenty years since Mother died. Julia looked carefully at her two companions, remembering the husbands who lost wives to childbirth-even thought of William Murdoch: _If they got through the death of a spouse, so can I._

"I'm, fine, really. And thank you both. Mrs. Hastings, can you fix supper for Father?"

"Of course, dear. But, you should not be alone," she advised. "There is so much to consider."

Julia agreed, for some reason thinking again of the teacher, then took in a deep breath to rouse herself to what she needed to face. "I must inform Joseph's parents and sister. It is my duty. Then I will try and locate Ruby and call down to Hamilton. Perhaps Mrs. Carter will come….I suppose we must accept condolences tomorrow.…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **~ Station No. 4**_

Hamish Slorach rubbed the bridge of his nose then turned up the oil lamp by his desk as he sat trying to read scribbled notes by the weak light and sort out how to make sense of the facts. The early investigation into Joseph Walters' death yielded a preliminary time of death as between one o'clock and three o'clock, based on rigor and temperature. Dr. Johnson expressed frustration over being unable to retrieve the bullet by extraction: something called a full craniotomy was required, and was scheduled for first thing in the morning along with examination of stomach contents. Slorach was not looking forward to that as it reminded him rather of what went into dressing game when he hunted.

He picked up another page of notes. A neighbor saw someone running away from the general direction of the Ogden home. The copper on the beat said the neighborhood was generally quiet, no recent break-ins reported, although the neighbour just opposite the Ogden house complained another mischief-maker repositioned the ladder he was using to fix his gutter.

Mr. Redhook agreed he saw Dr. Walters for treatment for his gout, and was out of there promptly at one thirty with the doctor alive and well. His carriage driver confirmed that, and no, neither man saw anyone lurking.

According to the roofing foreman who had been on the job nearly two weeks, no on suspicious was seen entering or exiting the Ogden house. His crew took their pay and dispersed, probably drinking in who-knows-where pub right now for the weekend since each received a bonus for finishing up early. They'd be hard to track down until Monday morning and the start of the next job, he wagered. Slorach still thought that was a still good line of inquiry, since from the roof the view was unobstructed.

The Ogden's staff, Mrs. Hastings and Mr. Granger (their stable and garden man) had no alibis, other than their interaction with each other about moving tables and chairs to the lawn for supper; no motive that was obvious either. He'd have to explore that: they certainly had access to the house and Dr. Walters with likely knowledge that the doctor was alone. He thought Mrs. Roundtree would have to be a supreme actress to pull off such a performance if she was the shooter, so he felt confident he could discount her as suspect.

However, if Mrs. Roundtree and Mr. Redhook were to be believed, their statements actually gave him a much narrower time of death between one-thirty when Mr. Redhook left and two-ten when Mrs. Roundtree says she found his body. _Forty minutes to end a life. Did the man know it was coming to him?_

Motive, means and opportunity. _Well, I have means, and a small window of opportunity. So I think I will work on motive. Is it love as the inspector suggests or money?_

Slorach placed newspaper clippings one by one on his desk from the folder Constable Burke provided him. Dr. Walters seemed to cut a wide swath in the elite of Toronto Society, according to the _Gazette._ In his mind, Slorach visualized a large target, but instead of shooting at it, he imagined concentric circles of suspects -the most obvious clustered around the centre: Unknown/unnamed enemies, something sordid from the doctor's life, someone with motive involving money, followed by Dr. Ogden, Mrs. Hastings, Mr. Granger, with _"The Widow"_ smack in the bulls-eye. He checked the wall clock and grunted at the late hour.

 _Tomorrow,_ he promised as he dowsed the lamp.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	4. Chapter 4

**~ Chapter Four ~**

 _ **Late Friday Evening**_

 _ **~ Rosedale**_

"Oh Jules. I am so very sorry for your loss. How are you holding up?" Mrs. Prudence 'Dennie' Carter put her bags down in the hall with her hat on top of the pile. This afternoon she had dropped everything and boarded an evening train from Hamilton to Toronto. _"Of course I am coming,"_ she had said. " _You are my best friend; you were there for me and my place is with you right now."_

They had known each other since childhood, and stayed friends for more than twenty years even if they did not visit each other very often as of late. Their mothers were friends of a similar generation and died within a few years of each other, leaving Dennie and Jules, two tomboys breaking all the conventions imposed on girls, to bond over their losses and difficult _paterfamilias_. Dennie did not know exactly what to expect when Julia called, but it was not this: Her friend looked impossibly frail and vulnerable, standing there ineffectually straightening a plain grey skirt, the vibrancy she was used to in Jules drained out of her. Even her warm red-ish hair, generally an unruly braid, was crimped up in a tight bun. Clearly the death of her husband was superimposed on other changes that transpired over the last few years.

"Dennie, I feel so guilty." Julia broke her several hour's silence, surprising herself by blurting out those thoughts. She rushed forward to embrace her visitor.

"Jules," Dennie hugged her. "Shall we talk?"

Upstairs in a guest room, Dennie listened as Julia tried to plow through her shock in classic Julia Ogden style: self-denying, rationalizing, and impulsive all at the same time.

"At first I thought he killed himself—I actually spouted that off to the detective." Julia felt her face flare hot.

"I thought you were worried about an affair?" Dennie knew that state of her best friend's marriage and had been careful over the years to never say ' _I told you so'_ about her impulsive wedding to the charming Joseph Walters. Dennie knew Julia was very ambivalent about her pregnancy and any desire to marry the man who made her so, and Dennie had always wondered what actually tipped the balance. Then a near-fatal miscarriage and long recuperation seemed to take out a lot of Julia's drive to become a doctor, mewing her up in Toronto between a husband and father, effectively clipping her wings.

Julia twisted her hands and frowned. "Always to the heart of things, eh Dennie? Joseph and I worked together even if…. Well, Joseph seemed much more distant, distracted lately, grim and worried, really not himself at all. I went so far as to suggest he was depressed, perhaps needed a break which is why I was happy that he suggested he'd take a week off and go to the lake house with Father."

"Jules, if things were so poorly between you, then why discuss having a child?" This made no sense to Dennie. This seemed to be another poor decision in a long line of them, starting with marriage, giving up medicine and independence in exchange for duty and security— _Probably also for approval from the great, cold, Lionel Ogden!_ Dennie felt the anger: _Approval only grudgingly given even now_.

"Dennie, I don't know….really think I it is because I have delivered so many children, seen the faces on so many mothers when I placed their baby in their arms…the love there…" Julia stopped herself, aware she was revealing more than she intended, even to Dennie. "Isaac and I were looking at options to increase my fertility. Joseph and his parents did so want a child, my father as well… I suppose I was so excited about the possibility after abandoning that idea for so many years…"

Dennie did not point out that nowhere in Julia's explanation was a truly good reason for motherhood. "I take it, it did not work out that way…?"

"We argued, Dennie. Our last words were so sharp! It seems too petty now, but I did not know what to believe. I actually thought he'd be happy at the idea of a pregnancy." Julia was drawn again to the whisky decanter, anything to blot out these horrible feelings. She waved angrily at a drift of papers covering a small desk. "And now this…"

"None of that makes his death your fault. Be reasonable, Jules…"

It took a while longer for Julia to vent her feelings so Dennie was exhausted by the time she got the whisky away from her, a sleeping draught down her, and Julia into bed.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 _ **Dominion Day, Saturday July 1, 1899**_

 _ **~Rosedale**_

"Mrs. Hastings? _Missus Ha-stings?"_ Dennie Carter hissed, daring not raise her voice in a house of grief, and made a face as the telephone jangled again at un-godly nine o'clock in the morning.

Today the Ogden household was as prepared as possible for mourning. Curtains were drawn, clocks were stopped, and photographs turned down or covered, along with the home's mirrors. Dennie was going to function as hostess (or a shoulder to cry on) as necessary.

Dennie looked around in desperation: Mrs. Hastings was probably in the kitchen with the cook and Dr. Ogden was still abed, feeling worn out and unwell. The morning papers published a lurid account of Joseph's death which everyone hoped to hide from his sister who was coming to the house soon. In the meantime, it was important to Dr. Ogden that all the proprieties were observed, so Dennie was giving final approval to Mr. Granger hanging black crepe over the entrance and a boxwood wreath tied with black ribbons centered on the front door.

The dratted hall telephone kept shrilling, piercing the dull quiet of the house. Dennie closed the front door, satisfied with the decoration and picked up the ear piece, uncertain if there were mourning traditions yet regarding such a modern intrusion as the telephone….

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

William arrived with Marguerite and Jack a little after one o'clock to pay the Ogden residence a condolence call at the proper hour. He'd resumed his black suit and the one black tie which escaped Mrs. Kitchen's superstitious insistence that it be burned as was customary after a year's mourning. The suit felt heavy and uncomfortable today for some reason. _Or perhaps it was the burden of grief which has seeped into the very fabric, weighing me down._

A tall, slim woman about Nurse Ogden's age, wearing a black dress in flat linen, approached and offered greetings as William batted away his uncomfortable musings to remove his homburg. Her dark amber hair was up in a copper dragonfly clasp, contrasting with light blue eyes.

"Good afternoon. I am Mrs. Prudence Carter, a friend of Mrs. Walters. She is resting at the moment, but thank you for coming. This way please."

William expected to pay their respects and leave, so he was taken aback encountering a knot of people, most of whom he knew. Alderman and Mrs. Brackenreid, the Crabtree's and Mrs. Kitchen were chatting quietly with Dr. Ogden and Mrs. Hastings. He saw that, indeed, the widow was nowhere in sight. William brought his wards over to wait by Dr. Ogden to express their sympathies, then offered his own.

Dr. Ogden was seated in a wingback chair in the family parlour. He looked ashen, his patrician face blanched nearly the colour of his white hair. Behind him, Mrs. Hastings was whispering a message and beside him was a small, straight-backed woman, about the doctor's age, who possessed light brown eyes. She was introduced as Mrs. Caroline Hill. All three were dressed in deepest black. Dr. Ogden kept reaching for this woman's hand; she held it tightly to still a tremor in his fingers. William assumed this was a relative or an old family friend. He said his peace and made to leave after acknowledging those with whom he was familiar. Mrs. Carter approached as he stood with his landlord and the Alderman, moving aside to admit her to their circle. Alderman Brackenreid made introductions.

"And how did you know Dr. Walters?" she asked, looking directly at Mr. Murdoch for an explanation.

William was startled when Mrs. Carter made that quiet inquiry of him. He paused, temporarily at a loss for words since in his view condolence calls were not properly for socializing, so he considered before speaking. "Mrs. Carter, I did not know Dr. Walters well, but I am acquainted with his wife, Mrs. Walters, through her work as a nurse." He gestured to include his companions. "She tended each of our wives," William answered softly.

"Midwife for my twins," Crabtree continued. "Quite amazing."

Brackenreid added with feeling, "And Bobby, my youngest. A near thing that was. If it wasn't for Nurse Ogden my wife and boy might have been goners for sure. She saved them both."

"I see," Mrs. Carter whispered politely, seeing each man nod in agreement. "And you, Mr. Murdoch, did Mrs. Walters deliver your children as well?"

William felt his stomach knot. He'd spent most of last night awake on his bed, his mind sorting memories as they surfaced. Losing Liza had been an exercise in agonous perseverance as she was indeed _consumed_ by tuberculosis.

 _Yet, she failed so quickly…_

His teeth clenched briefly before he relaxed his jaw. William tried very hard not to compare Nurse Ogden's sudden loss of her husband with watching Liza labouring towards the inevitable. _Which was a greater kindness?_ he kept asking himself. _A slow slide or quick and sharp with no opportunity for good bye, like my mother?_

Julia Ogden been there with him and Liza on that awful journey. He'd come to appreciate Nurse Ogden's quick wit and compassion, finding an intelligent, sympathetic soul in the dark hours of vigil. When Liza's body finally surrendered, William was suddenly bereft of Nurse Ogden's company as well as that of his wife; their intense companionship terminated and reverting to polite and superficial acquaintance. Saying any of that, while completely truthful, would also be humiliating.

"Er…no…" William was rescued from any further explanation by a swell of discordant noise in an otherwise subdued household. William looked up: the disturbance signaled the arrival of Detective Slorach. Mrs. Carter tried to intercede without success. William heard Dr. Ogden harrumph, his hoarse voice rising over the muted whispers in the room.

"Detective, is it? I will remind you this is a house of mourning. It is highly inappropriate for you to intrude on our grief at this time. I must ask you to leave." He struggled for volume, but no one mistook his words.

All eyes were on the detective. "Dr. Ogden. First let me express my deepest condolences for the loss of your son in law. I do not wish to be indiscrete, but considering he was killed right here in your own house, I should think you and your family would be the first to desire finding his killer and bringing him to justice."

Even though this was delivered in a _sotto voce_ , the utter silence in the room was testament to everyone's unavoidable, uncomfortable, eavesdropping. Dennie was appalled at this insult to the Ogden family, feeling she must assert herself again. She was used to soothing fractious men from handling day to day operations of her family business, so had no trouble at all confronting the intruder. "Perhaps I may be of assistance? I am Mrs. Carter, a friend of Mrs. Walters and the Ogden family. I am assisting as hostess since she is resting upstairs. What is it you require?"

Slorach tried a friendly tone. "What I require is to speak with Mrs. Walters, and ask some follow up questions of household members to further the investigation. I'm going to need to examine Dr. Walters' papers, including his medical notes."

Dr. Ogden levered himself up out of the chair. "Absolutely not! You will need a warrant…" The abrupt movement caused him a fit of coughing. Mrs. Hastings and Mrs. Hill rushed to get him seated again, their eyes blazing up at the detective.

"Really sir, can't you see…." Mrs. Hastings' protest was cut off with another fit of her employer's wheezing. William thought he needed to come over to assist the elderly doctor, when a clear voice cut through.

"Detective Slorach, if you please? My father is under strain. Direct your questions to me."

William was confused: there by the door, pulling off a dark cap, a pair of gloves and a driving coat was Nurse Ogden. A heavy bag was by her feet on the floor. _What was going on here?_ he asked himself. He'd been given to believe the widow was in the house, when clearly she had been outside. William saw the detective take in Nurse Ogden's appearance—no widow's weeds and the fact that she seemed clear eyed and composed.

Detective Slorach's instincts were clearly aroused, unconsciously taking in a sniff of air, before smiling at his quarry. "Mrs. Walters, it seems your hostess was mistaken about your whereabouts." Slorach pitched this in a friendly, bemused tone, but no one was fooled. "I must say it's a surprise not to see you wearing widow's black. How very modern."

Julia was perfectly aware of the detective's disapproval; like Dennie she possessed lengthy experience in reading disapprobation on men's faces. She squared her shoulders and leveled her eyes on his. "I do not believe modern _medicine_ will ever be able to schedule the arrival of a new baby around social conveniences. I have no choice in the matter; when a woman's time comes, I go," she said simply. "As for my attire, many of my patients believe it is bad luck to wear black to a birth; out of deference to their sensibilities I have my usual nursing garb on." She shot a brief glance of apology to Dennie, but stood her ground.

William thought her defiance was an error, but his own instinct was to defend her. Without realizing it, he interposed himself between the detective and the widow. "Detective Slorach, please. One should not be too quick to judge. We were just discussing how much we owe to Mrs. Walters' skills as a nurse and midwife."

"Nurse Ogden has often set aside her own comfort to tend to others." Mr. Crabtree added.

William continued. "While it may be socially unacceptable for a widow to leave her house, or work after the death, Mrs. Walters' profession requires more of her."

The detective caught Alderman Brackenreid's head bobbing up and down in agreement. "See here, detective. Perhaps your inquiry can be a bit more private?" Brackenreid gestured to the assembled people witnessing the exchange.

Shrugging, Slorach turned his head to the side. "The questions can be here or at the station, wherever you would find most private or comfortable."

William did not like the implied threat, and neither did his companions; all three men objected, talking over each other in the process.

Julia appreciated the defense being put up on her behalf at the same time resenting it as necessary to do so. She cut through the gabble. "Detective, we have nothing to hide, so you are welcome to ask questions and search our personal records…with a warrant. My father is right however: you will need more than that for our medical files—those are strictly confidential. May I please ask that our guests be excused before you pursue this any further?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Once on the street, the ladies, plus Jack Brown, spent a moment admiring white roses along the walkway while William, Mr. Crabtree and Alderman Brackenreid conferred.

"That detective seemed a bit rough, don't you think?" Mr. Crabtree whispered. "Nurse Ogden is such a lovely woman to be treated that way…"

"Yes, Crabtree, she _is_ a lovely woman, but history is strewn with wicked women who were beauties, and that is the type of woman the constabulary knows. No woman has been hung for murder in Canada since Elizabeth Workman in 1873; but everyone knows about Lizzie Borden, exciting unwholesome public opinions about women who kill." Brackenreid searched the house's façade as if he was reading a human face, then grunted. "No one knows what goes on behind closed doors."

"Indeed." William was offended at the detective's behavior, and more than a little alarmed at the alderman's' words. "I expected more from our constabulary than easy assumptions. Detective Slorach should be more restrained in a house of mourning; I have half a mind to lodge a complaint on Mrs. Walters' behalf."

"This will be a bad business, gentlemen," the Alderman pronounced. "I know how the constabulary works from my time on the City board, even more so from my stint as a copper myself. She'd best be cautious is all I have to say, and we should stay out of it." He tipped the brim of his black-silk high hat and grabbed his walking stick. "Good day."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five~**

Julia made sure the door was firmly shut behind Detective Slorach before she allowed herself to take in and express a full breath. She wasn't sure she could tolerate one more question, especially if it was the same one over and over, so when Dennie asked her a second time how she was faring she nearly snapped the woman's head off.

"Oh, Dennie. Please forgive me, this has just been so tiresome and difficult." She could hear her pulse rattling in her ear—breathing out wasn't helping much.

"Jules! What did he want to know? Detective Slorach spent only a few minutes with the rest of the household. You were in there for nearly an hour." Dennie followed Julia to the empty parlour, where she saw her friend stand by the window, flinging the curtains open.

"First of all, that detective will not release Joseph's body to me until sometime next week. His poor parents, his sister! They will be even more devastated. I cannot even plan a funeral…." She exhaled again and threw the window open for some air. "Secondly, he pointed out that since I shared that office with my father, it could have been either of us who was shot by someone rifling through our medical records, instead of Joseph. Oh my God, Dennie, can you imagine?"

"How frightful!" Dennie was angry that the detective ever suggested such a thing as well, and was revolted at what came next.

"He was not pleased, was actually suspicious because I was out of the house today and not in mourning clothes… questioning me about that. He asked me about our marriage. Then he wanted to know about Joseph's…habits I suppose you'd say..." Julia's fists bunched. She found it hard to turn around and face Dennie because of the mortification. It was one thing to share with her best friend the ups and downs of a marriage but to have a stranger intrude into what she had kept well-hidden to the rest of the world, was galling. It felt plain sordid to lay out the accommodation she and her husband had arrived at over the years.

"Oh." Dennie felt she had to say something to get Jules talking again.

Julia sighed and made to close the curtains as was proper in a house of mourning, then decided to leave them be. _People are going to talk anyway and I cannot stand having no air!_ "The detective was most curious where I was when Joseph was…was killed, as if I was a suspect. It was…chilling to say the least. He also asked me why you were 'lying' for me, _his words_ , when you told our callers I was upstairs resting. He made it all sound so nefarious."

"Well at least some people stood up for you, put that detective in his place for such uncharitable suspicions."

Julia's temper about that flared. "I am not a child who requires protection nor a damsel in need of a champion!" Julia drove her nails into her palms then deliberately opened her hands, one of which clutched a white handkerchief. Finally turning around, she sought Dennie's countenance. Her friend only sat quietly, an open expression on her face.

"Jules. Last night you were concerned about what you found in Joseph's private papers. Do you also think he had enemies?"

"That is what the constabulary wants to know, and why they took all of Joseph's files." She frowned, then sat in a chair opposite Dennie contemplating the interview she just endured, and stalling for time before answering that question. "The detective was surprised I did not keep better 'tabs' on Joseph. I said I certainly do not keep 'tabs' on my husband…he implied… well you understand? The constabulary wasted no time in establishing a dossier on Joseph, putting the most benign details into an unfavourable light." Detective Slorach actually said more than that, insinuating that few wives are aware of what their husbands are up to.

Dennie nodded at the unfairness of it all. "Did you tell him about you and Joseph fighting?" She asked this cautiously.

"How could I? How could I possibly tell him we argued about having marital relations and that Joseph started insisting on prophylactics if we did? It made no sense to me and certainly will not to that policeman…"

It made her queasy just to recall the detective's insinuations. " _Detective,"_ she nearly spat that out and blew a puff of frustrated breath. " _Pah!_ I cannot imagine doing that sort of work, delving into the sordid parts of an individual's private life." She could not help thinking about Joseph's body and what was happening on a slab in the Toronto City Morgue, comparing that violation to the detective's probing. "It would be like a… a _social_ autopsy! I would find that absolutely abhorrent! What does his wife think of that? What kind of… of _person_ would be drawn to such an occupation? One taken by prurient interest?"

Dennie, knowing she needed to wait it out, said nothing. _Jules looks so unhappy it breaks my heart._

"My father thought the world of Joseph. He will be devastated if that detective unearths even more unseemly information." Julia's shoulders dropped, her furor suddenly letting go.

"Indeed. Your father does appear to be taking his death hard." Dennie reached over to take Jules' hand, squeezing it gently.

"He seems broken-hearted. I have called his own physician, Dr. Bradley, to come see him tomorrow to check on him." Julia was indeed worried about her father's health, and ashamed with feeling irritated at her father's outpouring of grief. "He thought of Joseph and being able to carry his legacy, of course, not me…"

"Your father, my grandfather, are two of a kind in that regard." Dennie tried a wry smile, receiving one in return after a delay.

"Nothing changes, Dennie," Julia grimaced. "You and I both labour in our fathers' vineyards. Joseph was the son my father always wanted. He was taking on more of the medical practice; now I am afraid Father will have to postpone his retirement….I believe his lady friend will have to be patient," she added a flippantly.

"Ah, Mrs. Hill, the recent widow. She has been quite supportive." Dennie observed this without any of her own criticism. Lionel Ogden did seem thunderstruck by his son-in-law's death, as if the sorrows of the day were too much to bear. "Mrs. Hastings appears to disapprove, however." Dennie heard Julia make a tsk noise.

"Mrs. Hastings is jealous, I suppose. After all, she's had Father all to herself for twenty years. Mrs. Hill's own husband died not six months ago and until today she was never seen in black. Mrs. Hastings has been in high dudgeon as you can imagine…even suspicious of Mrs. Hills 'intentions'….On the other hand her arrival did bring a surprising change in Father…"

Jules fell silent again, hugging herself despite the heat. Dennie was getting more worried: she'd never seen her closest friend appear so uncertain…or lost for words. It also did not escape her that the question about the existence of Joseph Walters' enemies went unanswered.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **Sunday July 2, 1899**_

 _ **~ Station No. 4**_

"Instant death. Dr. Johnson confirms a .22 calibre." Inspector Lamb grimaced. "I really don't want to think about how he did that, eh? No powder burns, which only means the shooter was more than three or four feet away. Still a face to face deed." Lamb put the coroner's report down on a white wicker table next to his chair. He'd wanted an update, so Acting Detective Slorach called and asked to stop by Lamb's home in the afternoon. The two of them sat on the inspector's wide, shaded porch, hoping to catch a breeze a pitcher of lemonade between them. "Have you found a .22 handgun in the house?"

"No, sir. We did find an empty holster for what Dr. Ogden says was an old target pistol, a set of shotguns for skeet, an old hunting rifle and a great deal of archery equipment."

"You told me the widow's first statement was asking if the doctor killed himself, said he was despondent lately or some such?"

Slorach flipped through his notes. "Yes, sir. She said he had not been himself, been more distant and depressed. It makes sense if he was feeling pressured to come across with cash and knew he didn't have the funds. But there is no evidence of suicide. You will notice the autopsy rules that out as well."

"A witness saw someone running away from the house. Any leads in that?"

"Yes sir. Unfortunately it turned out to have been a young person setting off fireworks a little too close to another neighbour's shed, starting a small fire."

"Too bad. I suppose it was never going to be that easy. What have you found out about Dr. Walters?"

"Mrs. Walters was defensive about her husband's papers before she let them go but refused any look at the medical practice records—I have a specific court order in the works for that." Detective Slorach was grateful for Hodge on that one, making a mental note to thank him for the assist. "He is from Ottawa, son of a doctor, has one sister, a widow named Mary. Parents both living. Went to Bishops Medical School in Montreal, where he met his wife, Julia Ogden. She was actually studying to be a doctor if you can believe that, and still fancies herself as one it seems; she asked for a copy of this autopsy report." Slorach's general opinion of women (all except his own mother of course) was not very high, yet he was surprised and disgusted by the widow's request; he saw the inspector's eyebrows shoot up with at that as well.

"The couple married in July 1890 right after he graduated medical school then he immediately joined her father's practice. Dr. Ogden was quite pleased with the match I am told. Naturally, Mrs. Walters gave up the idea of becoming a doctor herself at that point. Dr. Walters was well-enough liked generally with a good reputation as a doctor. There are one or two unhappy patients but he has never been sued. He did not pay much attention to professional organizations but cut a figure in Toronto Society, belonged to all the right clubs and organizations if the constable who researched him in the _Gazette_ has it right."

Slorach paused briefly. "He was a member of the Bacchus Club," Slorach cleared his throat to indicate his opinion of such a place, "gambled frequently and fancied himself a businessman. I believe he was not very good at either of those pursuits, leastwise by what we have seen in his records, bank statements and the like. His wife seemed pretty upset when I showed her what we'd dug up already on her husband; she won't like the results of our further investigation."

"Paramours?" Lamb believed most motives for murder were, at their most basic, about love or hate. "A rejected lover? Jealous husband? Someone who wanted Dr. Walters out of the way to enjoy the merry widow?"

Slorach answered. "Dr. Walters certainly had a reputation as a man about town before his marriage. I myself have never ascribed to the idea that people change all that much over time, but no, no one obvious, although I imagine he'd have to be particularly discreet to preserve his reputation, so we will have to dig further. I could tell the notion upset Mrs. Walters."

"And the state of the marriage overall?"

"No children. Mrs. Walters herself said there was one miscarriage early on. The widow answered my questions about the marriage rather reluctantly—not a great love affair but they got along well enough, worked together and lived together—which may be why Dr. Walters had, ahem… so many social outlets. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hastings told me there were some arguments recently between the victim and his wife as well as between Dr. Walters and Dr. Ogden. Dr. Ogden said his argument was merely a difference of medical opinion, and he dismissed the arguments between husband and wife as his daughter merely being stubborn. She is apparently very outspoken." He paused. "She's also been arrested. _Twice_."

"Come again?" Lamb was shocked. Well-bred women rarely come to the attention of the law.

"Yes, sir. Once for public indecency."

"Indecency?" Lamb sputtered.

"Quite. She and some friends, including her houseguest Mrs. Carter, were swimming off Hanlon's Point, er…without clothing on." Slorach smiled briefly. "As for the other, I found out that Dr. Walters did not object to his wife campaigning for the vote," Slorach felt his face grow hot about discussing this next bit, "but she did receive a caution from the constabulary for leafletting about, umm, er…" he read directly from his notes, "quote 'Relations for recreation not procreation' unquote." He refused to make eye contact with his superior, but heard the inspector's snort. "Dr. Walters _did_ object to that; however it did not prevent them from working together. There are no reports of violence between them and no rumours of Mrs. Walters' infidelity of any kind. Everyone I have encountered so far speaks even more highly of her than him," he said. "Even Alderman Brackenreid."

"I see. Friends in high places. And Isee there is no confirmation as to where Nurse Ogden claims to have been."

"We're attempting to ascertain that now. She gave the constable an address in that warren of tenements in Cabbagetown, but no one was home—the place looked vacant to the constable. I suppose it is possible the address was wrong, so we are going to follow up."

Lamb was curious. So far a few facts, nothing helpful and time was wasting. "Do you have a theory of the case?"

Slorach scratched his belly through his waistcoat. "A confrontation. My first guess is that Dr. Walters let his murderer in, never expecting a weapon. I am thinking pre-meditated."

"Then get us some clearer motive and some suspects, _by tomorrow._ No day of rest for you, unfortunately. Get the widow's alibi nailed down. And check out the rest of the doctor's financials. The papers are having a field day with an unsolved murder of such a high profile citizen in his own home causing the Chief Constable to want updates twice a day." Lamb rose, dismissing his detective. He glanced around at the stack of paperwork beside him, when a new idea came to him. "Detective," he called out, stopping Slorach. "Could Dr. Walters have surprised someone in the office, rifling the files perhaps?"

"Sir, I had that thought as well; which is why I am arranging a court order to search the medical records stored in that room. A reporter perhaps? Someone after a bit of blackmail material? Doctors must know all sorts of, er…private matters about patients that should not see the light of day." Slorach supplied an interpretation. "That would mean that the shooter was not someone with a specific grudge against Dr. Walters."

Lamb nodded. "Yes, I suppose so, detective. But I think there is a problem with that—if you are trying to sneak around, why do so in broad daylight? And why bring a gun?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	6. Chapter 6

**~Chapter Six ~**

 _ **Monday July 3**_ _ **rd**_ _ **1899**_

 _ **~Rosedale**_

Julia's morning had been difficult, starting at eight o'clock sharp when the constabulary rapped on her front door demanding admittance. After being presented a properly signed court order, she watched like a hawk as Detective Slorach methodically searched through the filing cabinets in the consultation room she and her father shared. A small breeze blew the lace curtains around threatening the papers, so she closed the French windows despite the heat and pulled the fabric with a hard jerk to shade the room, muttering under her breath.

"Nothing seems to be missing or out of order," Slorach eventually pronounced.

"Detective, I could have told you that. Now, I hope you are satisfied." Julia stood by as patiently as possible throughout the search, but her nerves were frayed.

"We need to eliminate all theories, Mrs. Walters," the detective countered. "We have one crossed off the list—no evidence the files have been disturbed. It still does not mean someone did not come here with that intention and was neat about it or fled after the shot without getting what he came for."

Julia glanced at the floor. Last night she awoke from a nightmare with pain over her eyes. In her dream Joseph was angry with her, repeating their last conversation while sporting a gaping hole in his forehead. With her eyes closed she imagined his lifeless corpse on the floor in front of her desk, wondering for the hundredth time what had brought him to her office that fateful occasion. _I do not know if I feel better or worse to believe that Joseph was the gunman's apparent target._

"What have you discovered about who did this to my husband?" Julia was not impressed by this detective _\- "acting detective"_ she reminded herself - wondering what she should expect from the constabulary which claimed only six detectives for the entire city, and which spent most of its time enforcing Toronto's, in her opinion _ridiculous_ , "Blue" laws.

"Mrs. Walters, your husband owed a great many people money. That is often a strong motive."

"I cannot imagine someone killing my husband over that, because it is preposterous that he would renege on a debt!" Julia defended her husband even as a creeping feeling in her gut pressed up on her. "And your logic fails, since a dead man cannot pay any sort of…of illegitimate one."

Slorach actually felt bad for the widow's naiveté. "People can always pay. They may not be able to pay all at once, but arrangement can be made, methods of persuasion brought to bear. I will warn you, ma'am there may yet be other difficult information revealed about your husband in the course of the investigation." He opened his notebook and tapped the page with his pen. "I also need to confirm your whereabouts, as it seems no one at the address you gave us recalls your visit on Friday. Can you give me that information again?"

Julia had been dreading that, trying to come up with a convincing story for why her patient did not answer the door the first time and hoping it did not mean Katie's husband returned to beat her senseless— _or worse._ "My patient was very ill. Perhaps she was unable to get to the door, or was visiting family? It is Mrs. Katie Tough you are looking for. She resides at number twelve Dyer Lane, on the fourth floor, last door down on the right, door seventeen. Please be careful, detective, she'll likely be skittish."

A constable returned Joseph's private papers to her then the officers left, with Dennie seeing them out. When she returned, Dennie rolled her eyes. "Although I suppose it is early in the investigation, I am having difficulty believing in Detective Slorach getting to the bottom of it. I don't know what to make of all this, Jules."

"Nor, I." At the moment Julia was more concerned about how the detective would handle Katie Tough. "He seemed satisfied that Joseph was the intended…victim. It is an odd relief to know that no one was after Father or… me." She sucked air in through her teeth. "That sounds so…callous…"

Dennie tried to smile. "Anything else is a little, farfetched, don't you agree? Something from the fevered brain of a novelist like your Mr. Crabtree. Clear thinking is called for at the moment. What next?"

Setting morbid thoughts aside with a shake of her head, Julia hoisted the packages of documents to get to what she really wanted to know. "Will you help me with these? I am much better at chemistry than math. You run your family tobacco factory and know much more than I about money matters. If the constabulary thinks these contain the reason for Joseph's death then I need to know as well."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **~ Station No. 4**_

Inspector Lamb heard the commotion before he saw its cause as detective Slorach clattered into the bull pen. Lamb waved the man into his office and offered a seat, since the detective appeared to be bursting with news. "How is your investigation going?" Lamb was curious.

"I took your advice to see if love or hate could be motives as well. Dr. Walters did have a dalliance with a woman named Clarice Dowd about the same time he was courting Julia Ogden—that was more than nine years ago. However she is married to another physician now and lives in Montreal—hardly an immediate motive, but we will look for other more recent and more local connections."

Lamb was disappointed. "And the blackmail motive?"

"Sir, we looked at the victim's medical files early this morning—all are in order and as far as Mrs. Walters can tell, nothing is missing or disturbed. There are no rumours of newspaper reporters sniffing around for some sort of exposé according to Paddy Glynn at the _Gazette._ The theory of Dr. Walters interrupting a thief looking for information is all but eliminated." He coughed before continuing. "And there is certainly no evidence that Dr. Walters himself was blackmailing any one!"

"So you are down to money?"

"Yes sir. Here is a complete list. We have identified these eight men who had large financial dealings with Dr. Walters. I started background work on all of them and scheduled interviews with six of them for this afternoon or tomorrow. These two," Slorach pointed at the underlined names, "have the best claim against Dr. Walters' estate."

Taking the pages from his detective, the inspector considered a long list of numbers, whistling at the amounts. "Five thousand dollars! I could retire handsomely on that!" He flipped back and forth, comparing information. "So the motive is about getting money by killing the man?" Lamb liked it except for one thing. "Then the killer will be disappointed. It does not seem that Dr. Walters had the money to cover his debts – simple arithmetic tells us that. His estate will be unable to pay."

Slorach defended his choice of money motive: "Dr. Walters had all the outward appearance of wealth—that may have been a problem if one of the men he owed did not believe him when he claimed he did not have the funds."

Lamb glanced at the clock, impressed by how quickly the investigation was unfolding, satisfied that Hodge was guiding Slorach with a firm hand. "I see what you mean detective, however, it is not the sheer amount of money that will be the key—it is the determination for having it. What does the family say?"

"Um…sir. Mrs. Walters did not seem to know the details of their financial situation…" Slorach wondered to himself if there could be a motive for the widow in that fact.

The inspector sat back in his chair, contemplating the case. "And killing a man does not usually get you the money he owes you."

Slorach scowled. "Mrs. Walters said much the same thing."

"Did she now? She's right…but revenge for failing to pay is not unheard of." Lamb sat up in his chair. _It can be money and emotions._ "Go back through all these men and find out who needs an urgent infusion of cash the most, or who hated Dr. Walters the most. You may need to ask the family for their opinions. When you do so, question Dr. Ogden and the widow separately about who they think might be suspects." Lamb squinted at one name in particular. "Also check into this Mr. James Pendrick and add him to your suspect list since Dr. Walters seems to have been an investor."

Slorach was confused. "Why add him sir? The victim does not owe him any money."

"Precisely. Perhaps Dr. Walters was expecting a payout _from_ him to cover his other obligations and Mr. Pendrick wanted to welch on the debt. _Not_ having to pay out is a rather stronger motive, don't you think? Take Hodge with you for the interviews and send Higgins to research the financials." Lamb looked at Slorach and tapped the side of his nose. "Each of these men need to have his whereabouts confirmed before you talk with them. Here's a tip: never conduct an interview before you already know, or have a very strong understanding of what the truth is, so wait until you do. If the motive is not love, an affair or a blackmail scheme, find someone hateful or desperate enough to shoot a man while looking him in the eyes."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 _ **Rosedale**_

 _ **~ Ogden Residence**_

With Dennie's help, Julia sorted through the stacks of documents, hunting for clues as to what brought such a brutal end to her husband. After several hours they were at an impasse.

Julia's initial optimism was replaced by anger. "It's not fair—he didn't deserve to die that way! But I also feel betrayed, Dennie. Joseph told me there were some financial problems, not that we are nearly destitute!" Her headache, which continued since the middle of the night, was unrelenting at this point.

Dennie did not comment. Penury was an all too frequent threat to women, especially widows. In her view it was too soon to tell if her friend was headed there.

"Jules, I understand the banking records, the normal ledgers for the household and business records of the medical practice. Your husband was supposed to take care of what your father built; I am sad to say he did not. Joseph's money, your mother's money, _your_ money… is mostly gone." She was annoyed with Julia for abrogating all the financial aspects to Joseph despite it being a common practice for women to do so, softened only because Lionel Ogden apparently trusted his son in law as well. "I wonder if your father knows."

That had not yet occurred to Julia. "Oh, my-Joseph and Father were arguing recently as well, but no, I doubt that. Dennie, it will kill Father to think his 'son' bankrupted me and the practice. Thank God Father's personal money was protected."

"I think you will still need an accountant or someone familiar with stock investment schemes because I don't know very much about that, but your husband seems to have been unwise in his financial decisions there too. He was gambling on profits but he was selling his stocks to pay other debts—at a loss apparently. These eight men," Dennie tapped the list of debtors the two of them compiled, "all had the largest business arrangements with your husband, and these two had substantial promissory notes. These must be the suspects Detective Slorach has."

"But I _know_ these men. Dunbar Scott… Julius Costner, Marshall Kingman…the rest of them. Impossible! Most of their wives are my patients. I delivered their children! I have condolences from all of them… I cannot imagine any of them killing Joseph." Julia was at a loss, frustrated again beyond measure.

"Jules—I know this is horribly hard, devastating. If we are unsure that detective will handle the investigation in a thorough manner, then we must see to it that justice is done, even if we have to look at difficult facts. So you reject the idea that these men had a motive for killing Joseph."

Julia's revulsion to the idea was profound. It would mean that one of her female patient's husbands, the father of one of the children she delivered, a man into whose arms she placed an infant, killed Joseph. "Yes, I do!" she nearly shouted.

"So, if these men could not betray you by killing Joseph, then you must think a lover or jealous husband shot him…."

"Dennie! You are being deliberately mean," Julia was trembling, turning anger now towards her friend.

"No, Jules, no I am not. Where is that dispassionate mind your father taught you to use? You may not have told the detective everything, but you can tell me. Do you think Joseph was having an affair and killed because of it?" Dennie held her friend's eye steadily until Jules' shoulders slumped and her head fell forward in tears.

"Yes, I do think Joseph was having an affair—it would not be the first time I suspected as much. No proof, only women's intuition I suppose—he would…er…lose interest occasionally and I always wondered. However if there were affairs, he was very discreet, and careful. I never heard a whisper and I have never received any looks of pity from other women's faces." She exhaled. Julia did not say the rest of her suspicions, too mortified to give them voice. _Why did Joseph start insisting on prophylactics?_ She gestured instead to the financial ruin the two of them had pieced together. "So no, I do not believe that's what why he was killed."

Dennie came over to her friend and grasped both wrists. "Then it is one of _these_ men and gives us a place to start once we thoroughly understand the financials."

Julia struggled to give in to yet another duplicity. "Yes...yes, you are right. I will get someone to look at the investments just to be sure, but yes, by process of elimination it must be one of those men." Julia felt queasy, and pushed that away, straightening her shoulders and pulling her chin up. "It will be unimaginably hard on their family if we are right."

"How shall we proceed?"

 _Family._ Julia had been thinking about just how separate her life had been from Joseph's – a distancing which started out, like so many marriages, with small degrees of separation in work or social outlets, interests and temperaments. Small compromises, small neglects. Eventually unspoken or unexamined arrangements filled the void, a chasm too wide perhaps to cross even in a couple who lived and worked together as she and Joseph had done. _Had that been inevitable?_ she wondered. She had always dreamed of the ideal marriage as a partnership of equals, and exchange of ideas out of which passion might grow. There was a time when she tried to foster that between Joseph and herself, but it collapsed under disappointment. _Was that the way of all marriages? Do they all end up with discrepancies between expectation and reality?_ _Or am I to blame for never really being in love with Joseph in the first place?_ She thought of her list of names— was there another family going to be rent by calamity?

"I need to see about Joseph's Will. Then I am going to take this list and call on their wives to thank them for their expressions of condolence, while I fish for anything I can..."

Julia was certain there was much she did not know, and equally certain where to start, as awkward as it was going to be. She finished her statement to Dennie.

"…But first I think I need to talk with Father."

She was suddenly aware of passage of time- Mrs. Hastings had brought bread, jam and tea up for luncheon more than five hours ago. With she and Dennie so focused on the documents Julia had forgotten all else. "Good gracious! I must get ready. You remember my patient, Mrs. Kitchen? She is coming by here for her treatment so that I am not subject to any more censure for doing my job!"

Dennie saw the change in Jules—no longer defeated, no longer fearful—back to an attitude of determination. _Good,_ she thought, _exactly what will be necessary._ Dennie decided that a little more distraction was necessary to solidify this new mood; a second benefit would be to satisfy her own curiosity, something Dennie was never shy about expressing. "Do you think Mrs. Kitchen will be accompanied by someone? Perhaps someone from her place of employ, even Mr. Crabtree? I found him quite amusing actually, someone I'd like to invite to an otherwise stuffy dinner party to liven up the conversation. Can't you just see him plunk in the middle of my Grandfather Taggert's dining room?" Dennie actually giggled at the thought of Endeavour Taggert's frosty glare being no match for Mr. Crabtree's wit. Jules smirked as well, another signal that her friend was back in focus and in control of herself-the tension in her face was leaving.

"Dennie—only you can manage to scrape an acquaintance at a condolence call. You'll make your next conquest at the funeral!" Julia chastised fondly, aware that Dennie was exactly the friend she needed at the moment to help her through such a difficult set of circumstances. Of all her friends, Dennie was the boldest and most straight-forward as well as the least conventional. There were times she was jealous of Dennie's path in life, wondering if in another life she too would have thrown convention to the wind.

"I believe the Crabtrees will have their hands full today. As for Mrs. Kitchen, I doubt she will come alone…perhaps a friend will help her. While she still manages her boarding house and helps out at the Flower Inn occasionally as a favour, she is, er… well, a little mentally confused lately because of her illness, especially when she is out of her element, which is why I made a 'house call' on her in the first place."

"Yes. She was sweet but I did notice she was a little dotty when I met her, going on and on. You do encounter the most interesting people in your line of work."

"You don't know the half of it!" Julia exclaimed, while gazing out towards the front of the house, glad to be on a comfortable topic again. "I see people at their very best or very worst when all social distinctions are ripped away. I used to think I was destined to be a physician, Dennie, but I would never have been aware of people's daily lives if I had any other occupation. As a nurse I spend much more time actually talking with my patients than Father or Joseph ever did as doctors. I do believe it is as rewarding to me as it may be to my patients."

Dennie suspected this was a kind of rationalization Julia was wont to engage in, even if partly had always wondered if the whole of the truth was that Julia threw herself passionately into her work as a nurse to make up for what was lacking in the rest of her life, having traded her dreams of autonomy for a conventional marriage and approval from her father. _Now is not the time to explore that,_ she reasoned, _having just gotten her back into problem solving mode_.She said only, "Mrs. Kitchen is lucky to have you."

From her vantage, Julia spied a carriage coming up the drive. She let the curtain drop. "Right now, Mrs. Kitchen is coming to the door. And sorry to disappoint you, it looks like Mr. Murdoch is with her."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	7. Chapter 7

_**~Chapter Seven~**_

 _ **Tuesday July 4**_ _ **th**_ _ **, 1899**_

 _ **~ To Station No. 4**_

A light shower cooled the City off over-night, clearing the dust, soot and pollen out of the air to leave everything feeling refreshed and new. Julia barely registered the change as she made arrangements to collect her husband's remains and bring him home for his formal wake tomorrow. His casket was selected and Josephs' body removed from the morgue to the undertaker, where it was washed, dressed and locked away, un-embalmed, in his wooden coffin.

The funeral was set for Thursday-a closed-casket affair. Julia was well-versed in autopsy methods from her time in medical school and she had no faith at all in an undertaker's art when it came to covering up a head wound and the consequences of an autopsy such as Joseph underwent. It helped a bit to know what to expect, yet the sight of her husband's lifeless body sickened her, setting off a tremor in her that refused to quiet itself. Julia said her final good byes at the undertakers' before the coffin lid was screwed down tight.

Mrs. Hastings was of course appalled about the whole thing, especially not burying him in Toronto. His sister would represent the family since his parents were not coming. The news laid his mother so low his father was now afraid for her wellbeing, thinking the trip might kill her. Julia eventually acquiesced to his family's wishes to have Joseph go 'home,' since she and Joseph had never made any prior arrangements, assuming they would have time enough for that…

 _Time_ …Julia was musing about that concept all night. Armed with the information she had gleaned, she and Dennie took a hansom to Station No. 4, asking to speak with Detective Slorach.

"Good Afternoon. Mrs. Walters, I am Inspector Lamb. Please allow me to express my condolences on your loss." Lamb greeted the two women, trying to keep his inquisitiveness at bay while settling them into his office for privacy. "Over here, have a seat ladies. Detective Slorach is occupied at the moment. May I help you?" His detective was at that very moment interviewing one of the persons of interest a few yards away in the Station house interrogation room. He nodded politely, noticing the widow and her friend were in proper black.

Julia spoke up, hoping the quaver she felt in her throat was not obvious in her voice, and quite happy she did not have to speak with that detective. "Thank you. I wanted to express my appreciation for releasing my husband's body to me. The wake will be Wednesday and the funeral the day after." For a long moment Julia found herself incapable of words.

Dennie rescued her. "Yes. Thank you. I am Mrs. Carter, a friend of Mrs. Walters. She… _we,_ would like to know any update on the investigation into his death." For some reason Dennie did not wish to say murder.

The inspector was not surprised. From everything he knew about Mrs. Walters, and considering who her father was, he had no doubt the widow was interested in resolving this matter, and was not surprised she was this direct about it. "I am not at liberty to give you details, you understand, but I believe we are developing leads. Has Detective Slorach spoken with you today?"

"No," Julia answered. "Does he have information for me, or are there more questions to be asked?"

Lamb cast a critical eye on his guests, and made an intuitive leap, hoping he was not sandbagging his own detective in the process. "Both, I imagine. Mrs. Walters, Mrs. Carter…do you have something you wish to share?"

"Indeed, Inspector. I have examined the same papers your detective has. We believe Mr. Marshall Kingman may be responsible for my husband's death." Julia removed a sheaf of folded papers from her reticule, and handed them over.

Smoothing the pages on his desk, Lamb began to read them. "Where did you get these?"

Julia cleared her throat, hoping to speak what she had rehearsed ever since she'd spoken to her father. That conversation had been plain awful, but the worst part was her feeling of betrayal:

… _.What do you mean you knew? You_ _ **knew**_ _that Joseph was broke? Worse than that, that_ _he_ _, that_ _ **we**_ _ **,**_ _were in such deep debt? And you said nothing to me?_ she had railed. _You refused to help him?_ _Father, how_ _ **could**_ _you?..._

To his credit, her father had looked guilty. Then he dropped the bombshell, telling her: _Your husband was angry with me because I would not bail him out unless he met my conditions. Since he refused me, I told him to be a man and settle his accounts like one. I suggested he renegotiate terms if he could, and if not, he needed to come back to me on my terms._

Julia's anguish felt like a hot poker in her chest. _My own father was a precipitant to Joseph's murder!_ Julia had been so furious she flew out of the room, pulling Dennie back to the ledgers now that she knew what to look for. Delving into the facts was all that kept her sane and her mind away from thoughts of her father.

"My father overheard my husband and Mr. Kingman arguing over money. Subsequent to that, my husband approached my father about lending him funds in an amount equal to the debt owed Mr. Kingman. My father was initially going to cover the debt, but then changed his mind. After that," Julia gestured to the last page, hoping her voice remained without inflection, "my husband added a change to his Will ordering that debt be resolved before all others. His solicitor delivered the document to me late last night. I believe that was to get Mr. Kingman to back off the pressure he was putting on Joseph, to give Joseph enough time to borrow more money or cover the debt in another way."

Lamb was impressed. Mrs. Walters seemed to be a woman of integrity and she and her friend were decent investigators. Never the less he was cautions about being too enthusiastic. "Is there more?"

Julia hesitated. "I believe so. It just so happens that, according to his wife, Mr. Kingman was unaccounted for on Friday afternoon. He was supposed to be shooting skeet but supposedly begged off at the last minute." Despite making telephone call to find out that very thing, Julia found it difficult to offer that information. Dennie had had to work hard to convince her that it was the right thing to do.

"The constabulary will have to confirm all of this of course." He decided to take the opportunity to keep the interview going to support his own theory of the crime. "What do you know about another man, Mr. Pendrick's business arrangement with your husband? Are you aware of any arguments between them?"

Julia nodded her head. "I do not know Mr. Pendrick socially or professionally, but he has called the house on occasion and I have heard my husband having words with him on the telephone—about what I do not know." _So much I did not know._ Julia guarded against letting her mind wander, forcing her attention back.

Lamb explained. "It seems Mr. Pendrick was involved in an electric carriage scheme and something called 'photovoltaic cells' whatever they are. Your husband's arrangement called for a repayment of principle plus interest by the end of this September. I understand your husband, er…needed cash rather sooner than that, possibly to pay Mr. Kingman, at the same time Mr. Pendrick was asking to postpone the repayment until next year."

"I see." Julia straightened up even further and looked sideways at Dennie. "Yes, Inspector. That appears to be one of my husband's better business deals, a secured loan rather than a straight out investment where Joseph might take a risk of no return of principle." Dennie had explained that part to her the night before and she felt confident it was true. After all the information they looked at though, neither she nor Dennie had considered James Pendrick a suspect, so she waited in hopes Inspector Lamb would further enlighten her.

The inspector merely raised his eyebrows. "Thank you, ladies for coming in. Let Dr. Ogden know we will send someone around to take his statement. And again, I am so sorry for your loss."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **Garden District**_

 _ **~ to the Flower Inn**_

"That went better than I expected," Julia commented to Dennie as their carriage rolled along. She was proud of how well she was handling herself considering she wanted to strangle her father after learning what he had done. It was the sort of bloodless behavior she had come to expect, yet the coldness in this instance took even her by surprise. Father had not come down for breakfast this morning which was just as well.

Julia continued staring out the carriage window. She made it clear to Dennie discussing her father was too much; all she wanted was to get answers.

Dennie understood, deciding more distraction was in order. "Are we going to drop off the investment paperwork to Mr. Crabtree and leave? If so, perhaps a stroll in the Horticultural Gardens or over to Queens' Park?" For some reason Julia asked the Innkeeper to look at Joseph's investments, saying he was quite knowledgeable, so that is where they were headed.

"We'll see…" Julia said distractedly.

"Perhaps we shall run into Mr. Murdoch since I there was no opportunity to converse yesterday—you had Mrs. Kitchen in and out so quickly. Is he always so serious?"

"Mr. Murdoch is the soul of propriety." Julia shrugged. "When I knew him best his wife was dying a slow, painful death. There was not much levity in my experience of him then, as you can imagine." She hoped Dennie would drop it since she needed to focus on the job at hand without any more embarrassment than was necessary in front of Mr. Crabtree. The carriage driver called their stop. Julia looked at her friend's intense, encouraging face under a sweep of reddish hair and gave a tight smile, grateful for Dennie's support. Pulling herself together she stepped out, adjusted her skirt and hat, then went determinedly forward.

In the establishment's dining room, George Crabtree sat his guests at a small table under good light, furnishing tea and biscuits before he looked at Nurse Ogden's documents. He'd been surprised and flattered to be asked. "May I ask how you are, and, um…if the constabulary has made any progress with catching the man who did this to your husband?"

Julia felt genuine concern, not intrusion from this man she knew to be kind and generous. It helped bolster her resolve. "I am doing the best I can under the circumstances, thank you. As for the other, in fact we just came from seeing the authorities. From what we gathered, the constabulary is closing in on a suspect."

"I am not sure how I would feel if it were me. Relief I suppose?" George asked.

"Indeed, Mr. Crabtree. I will be glad when this is all over." She pushed her papers forward. "In the meantime, I appreciated your willingness to help me out, as stocks are not my area of expertise. I hope to count on your discretion…" Julia picked at her ever-present handkerchief. "This money was my portion of my mother's legacy…I am embarrassed to say that I paid inadequate attention to the finances, leaving that to my husband. Mrs. Carter has given me a crash course in money matters in the last few days, unfortunately neither of us know much about public stock offering investment schemes. It is not like real estate, bonds, or even banking or having a family business which I can understand. My solicitor just rolled his eyes. Can you explain how this works?"

"I will certainly try. I understand perfectly that if one does not understand an investment one is likely to be taken advantage of. Let us see what you have here." George read off the list. "Ford's company, Standard Oil, Coca-Cola…have you ever tried that? Very refreshing it is..!" He offered a bright smile in recollection.

Julia appreciated investing in an actual factory, but could not prevent herself from scoffing at such a thing as he seemed to endorse. _Might as well invest in a useless fly-by- night purveyor of patent medicines._ "Investing in the fortunes of a soft drink company over the security of a Canadian government bond? That seems folly, Mr. Crabtree… "

"Business Machines, Bell Telephone…."

Right on cue, the Inn's telephone rang. _Dennie of course would have to laugh at the coincidence_ , Julia thought, amused herself at the fortuitous interruption.

"My apologies ladies, if you will excuse me?" George answered the ringing summons, spoke a few words and cribbed a message before returning. "Where were we? Ah, yes…General Electric…" George continued, trying to keep the approval out of his voice, since these picks mirrored his own investments- which was a relief since it made it easier to be helpful.

"Because I do not understand them I cannot figure out what they are worth. To me it seems like gambling…." Julia stopped herself, hoping she did not sound too much as if she were complaining about Joseph.

"I suppose these are gambles, but its legal gambling isn't it?" George could easily tell Mrs. Carter and Nurse Ogden remained skeptical, so he plowed on. "In simple terms, essentially you buy a 'share' of the company. If the company does well it will send you a dividend, a share of the profits so to speak. You can also make money by selling a share that appreciates in value to another investor who wants to buy it for more than you paid for it. The risk is that the share can depreciate beneath what you originally bought it for, or the company itself goes bankrupt."

Julia was unimpressed. "It still sounds like a lottery to me."

He wrinkled his nose. "This one, Canada Life, I am not familiar with."

"Nor are we. Do you suppose you can look at these now? While we wait?" Dennie asked, her eyes darting to the common room.

Mr. Crabtree's gaze followed, hailing his resident. "Good afternoon Mr. Murdoch. Your mail is on the counter along with a telephone message. They want you to call right away."

Julia went very still, suddenly concerned about being caught out on an apparently frivolous afternoon's entertainment the day before her husband's wake…

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 _ **~ Station No. 4**_

Detective Slorach had emerged from the stationhouse's interrogation room feeling pretty good about his case—except that the suspect claimed he was elsewhere at the time of the murder with a witness to that effect. He had to admit that to Inspector Lamb and was more than a little embarrassed about failing to follow the directive about not asking a question before you knew the answer. "We only checked on the time his meeting broke up—not on when he actually left that location." Slorach now sat with his superior, trying to weigh his options now that there was a second suspect. "So, you are convinced Mrs. Walters' information pointing to Marshall Kingman is viable. Do I release Mr. Pendrick?"

Inspector Lamb was feeling optimistic that one way or the other an arrest would be made by the end of the day— Pendrick or Kingsman, it didn't matter, as long as he could say something concrete to Chief Constable Giles other than 'sorry, sir, we have no arrests yet.' _There are only so many ways to spell out failure, Inspector Lamb._ Giles had said in his precise, clipped tones. _Keep me apprised of developments in the case and see to it you change the script!_

Lamb was grateful he was going to be able to do just that. "No Slorach, we do not let up on Mr. Pendrick. In my opinion, he is the perfect suspect. His motive is very strong, he owns many guns, and he was heard to argue with the victim just before the victim's death. He admits he wanted to postpone paying his obligations and that if Dr. Walters died the obligation did not evaporate although the requirement to pay on time _would_ die with him. Mr. Pendrick admitted to you that his electric carriage deal fell apart, leaving him nearly ruined. That meeting he claims he was at on Friday ended in plenty of time for him to have made the trip over to the Ogden residence and shoot Dr. Walters, then dispose of the weapon God-knows-where. Keep him until you question his alibi—do it right away."

"Yes sir. I already placed a call in for that and expect to hear back any minute."

"Then in the meantime go back over what Mr. Kingman told you, concentrating on his whereabouts as well—you thought he was very sketchy when you interviewed him and his alibi has a crack in it now thanks to Mrs. Walters, so see if you can shake it loose. Put someone on him so he can't take a bunk and bring him in as soon as you have any evidence."

Slorach objected. "How can we pursue both men at the same time? They can't both be guilty, it'd be like asking my hound to tree a fox _and_ a bear—in different trees!"

Lamb smiled briefly at the metaphor – _Slorach is 'dogged' indeed!_ "Detective: from what we know of them, both these men are bold enough to shoot someone in the face, and both desperate enough it appears. Motive, means and opportunity. Find it! Reassign more men if you have to but get it done. I will call old Dr. Ogden myself to confirm what his daughter said about Mr. Kingman."

A rap on the office door brought both men's attention to Constable Hodge, seeking permission to enter. Slorach looked up expectantly, seeing a deep frown on the constable's face. "What is it, Hodge?"

"Sirs, we just got back from Cabbagetown…"

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	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: this extra chapter is posted for IdBeDelighted because I am not that cruel!**_

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 _ **~Chapter Eight~**_

 _ **Garden District**_

 _ **~ The Flower Inn**_

William mounted the stairs towards his rooms, lost in happy thought. Earlier in the day, Mrs. Campbell had accepted his invitation to stroll in the park later on this evening. She worked as a secretary for her father's scientific instrument import company and as such she and he had a long acquaintance, corresponding about his purchases. He liked her orderly mind, full of knowledge about the purposes of the devices her father sold. As this would be their first purely social encounter he admitted an excitement at starting to court again. He hoped she returned his interest in her. The match would be encouraged, he was sure, by other St. Paul's parish ladies, since eligible bachelors were always given an assist in making sure a new wife came from within the congregation, and Elizabeth Campbell regularly sat eight rows behind him in the sanctuary every Sunday. William had a logical plan completely mapped out for the evening—he knew exactly what flower beds he would explore with her, over which part of the gardens the sun would set, and had the newest issue of _Popular Mechanics_ to share: all part of his campaign to acquire a new wife.

In the meantime, mail in hand, he was already absorbed by a hydraulics problem about which he was consulting for Alderman Brackenreid's plumbing business. _Three hundred rooms!_ The job was going to be enormous, netting William a nice fee if he could solve the requirements of delivering water to three hundred water closets, sinks and baths in addition to the radiator heating. What he had in mind was to have the reserve water tanks on the building's roof, so the science teacher in him was trying to decide if he should sketch out the calculations for pressure, height, velocity and diameter on the chalk-board in his rooms to explain his schematic, and wanted to get to it as soon as possible considering his meeting with Brackenreid would start shortly. A note to call the constabulary tucked with his letters interrupted progress to the second floor. He made a frustrated face, turning around to go back down to the Inn's front desk and the telephone. From that vantage he spied Nurse Ogden and her friend sitting in the dining room—his mind had been so focused on equations he'd not even been aware of their, certainly unexpected, presence. Trying to put his curiosity aside, he placed his call, which was answered immediately.

"…Yes, he was, I am quite certain when the meeting began and ended… Afterwards we surveyed the buildings and grounds, spoke together until at least two-thirty… Is that…?... Oh….In fact she is…yes, yes I understand…. Yes, I will pass on your request." William placed the ear piece in its cradle feeling righteously indignant. He did not need to be told, that by requesting confirmation of the times James Pendrick arrived at and left Sommerbank on Friday, the authorities had Mr. Pendrick under suspicion in Dr. Walters' death. _It is unimaginable a man of Mr. Pendrick's intelligence and character could or would commit a murder,_ he fumed to himself. _The very idea was preposterous!_

William worked to check his vexation, smoothing his face the way he learned to do in front of a classroom. Surviving fifteen years of young persons who delighted in challenging authority, made him generally impervious to displaying any markers of stress. When he approached Nurse Ogden and her companion to deliver Detective Slorach's message, he saw the two ladies appeared to be having tea, although without much pleasure in it. On closer view William thought Nurse Ogden looked pinched and uncomfortable, her face closed off in an uncharacteristic way. _She looks so sad,_ he thought, _sad and determined._ He remembered his own grief after Liza's passing, and wished he could find words to ease her distress. In her presence,formulae evaporated from his head as did the rest of his ire at the constabulary—his only thought was her unhappiness and how tongue-tied he was. He coughed slightly to interrupt.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Murdoch." Mrs. Carter said with a polite smile.

William tipped his hat in acknowledgement, shifting his papers around to do so. "Good afternoon, ladies." He paused. Asking after their health or family was absurd under the circumstances so he did not, but that created an awkward silence, as if he was expecting a social exchange from the ladies. Embarrassed, he offered an apology. "Forgive me for intruding. Nurse Ogden, I have a message for you from Station four. Detective Slorach is wanting to speak with you, and I let him know you were here. He asked that you please wait for him; they are on their way." He saw Nurse Ogden's face flush with irritation. "Is there something wrong?" he inquired, then knew that was another intrusion. _You are being foolish, William!_ he argued with himself. _What could possibly be_ _right_ _?_

She answered with a sigh. "Only that we just came from speaking with his superior. What on earth does he want now?"

Mrs. Carter brightened. "Possibly he has a break in the investigation? That would be quick work, eh Jules?" She put a hand out to her friend encouragingly.

William felt conflicted, unsure if he should disclose the constabulary's interest in Mr. Pendrick; wanting to reassure Nurse Ogden overrode his judgement about it. _After all,_ he rationalized, _I was not told to keep a secret_. "I believe that may be the case. I, er… at least one possible person of interest was just eliminated…."

Mrs. Carter immediately spoke up. "To whom are you referring?"

William immediately knew it had been a mistake to say anything, now he felt trapped with Nurse Ogden looking at him intensely, her eyes signally she clearly wanted to know, and expected him to reveal. He was upset with himself for being maladroit with something so delicate, searching for a way out—and found none, only the pull of her gaze. Taking a breath he said: "As ridiculous as it seems, Mr. James Pendrick was required to provide a witness. I was able to satisfy them."

Nurse Ogden's shoulders lifted, while she slid a look at Mrs. Carter. "Interesting. Thank you Mr. Murdoch. I am gratified the constabulary came to its senses. I hope that means their resources will now focus on someone else."

He appreciated the spark in her eyes. Because she answered with such certainty there _was_ someone else, William was even more curious what she knew; however he had no polite way to ask. Silence lengthened between the three of them.

Behind William, the Inn's doors opened, admitting Alderman Brackenreid Mr. Crabtree's dogs gently woofed a greeting—this of course broke the awkward mood apart as all eyes turned towards the new-comer.

"Mr. Murdoch! Ladies, good afternoon." Brackenreid was in a good mood, making a jovial comment on the improved weather, then he locked onto the teacher. "If you have no objection ladies, Mr. Murdoch and I have a spot of business. Since we are pressed for time I was wondering if you could part with him?"

William could hardly refuse. Reluctantly, he bade the ladies good day and invited the alderman to join him, pushing his thoughts back to elegant and interesting Bernoulli equations. "Alderman Brackenreid, perhaps you would like to see the formulae I am going to use…."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Dennie followed the men's departure, idly wondering what business the boisterous alderman and the restrained teacher could possibly have together, since two more opposite men she could not imagine. As Mr. Crabtree was still in his office examining some sort of records he kept there, and Jules's attention was captured by some far off aspect, there was little to do except sit and wait. Dennie was concerned about her friend's spirits falling into another slump. To prevent that, she decided to try to distract Julia again with some trivial conversation. "Jules, what business do you suppose Mr. Murdoch and Mr. Brackenreid could have together? They may have employed you on behalf of their wives but are hardly business or social equals, so if not that, what could one possibly need from the other?"

Julia raised her eyebrows. "I am sure I do not know. I have not spoken to the alderman since Christmas before last. Furthermore, I have exchanged more words with Mr. Murdoch in the past five _days_ than the previous five _months_ , so I can hardly say I know their arrangements!"

"Oh you must be able to speculate-you told me you know a great deal about your patients and their families. " Dennie prompted.

"Yes, that is true. That knowledge is to be kept _private_ , Dennie. I can hardly gossip and expect to retain their trust."

Dennie quickly placated, pleased that her gambit for getting Julia aroused again was working, and pressed her own curiosity about the handsome teacher anyway, thinking it was a safe topic. "Of course, but this is about public business, not private affairs. What could a businessman of the alderman's apparent stature want or need with a teacher from a preparatory school?"

Julia was impatient to hear back from Mr. Crabtree, so she guessed what Dennie was trying to do. She hesitated, then gave in. "I suppose they have somethings in common besides their association with Sommerbank. They are certainly both self-made men, I suppose you'd call them. Mr. Murdoch has a reputation beyond teaching for being an excellent problem-solver as well as being a bit of an inventor. Because of that, when individuals of all kinds have a nettlesome puzzle, they sometimes consult with him about solving it. Alderman Brackenreid is one of Toronto's premiere businessmen. He took over his father in law's family plumbing business and made it into the largest firm in the city. I imagine Alderman Brackenreid has a question to ask Mr. Murdoch about a plumbing project he is bidding on, so it has to be something about water, or pipes perhaps?" Julia merely shrugged.

"Oh. I see-how terribly dull." Dennie sighed dramatically. "I am surprised, since I found Mr. Murdoch to be quite intriguing," she said, with just the right inflection in her voice.

Julia knew _that_ tone. Even with an introduction under less than hospitable circumstances, what Dennie implied was that William Murdoch, all stiff and formal as he was, was extremely good looking. Whilst Dennie might not be interested in marriage or financial entanglements with men, she had _eyes._ Denniecould not have failed to notice the teacher's meltingly brown ones, strong jaw and even white teeth, nor his trim figure inside a beautifully tailored modern suit. _I understand the attraction…._

"Mr. Murdoch explained you tended his wife on her death bed," Dennie could not help herself from quizzing Jules. She laughed discreetly then lowered her voice. "And you call the way _**I**_ meet people, unseemly! Is that how you met him?"

"March twelfth, eighteen ninety-three," Julia said without thinking, and caught herself unconsciously still looking towards the Inn's staircase.

Dennie was startled—she had expected some defensive remark. "How odd you remember the date."

Julia fidgeted and sighed. _Leave it to Dennie to probe where it was tender._ "Actually, it's the attempted hanging I remember. Clayton Bowles, age fourteen. I sometimes accompany my father when he is called in to render medical care. Young Clayton was a scholarship student at the school where Mr. Murdoch teaches. He'd had an argument with his parents, quite a row actually because they wanted to pull him out of the school. He beat them badly then fled to Sommerbank, for some sort of sanctuary I suppose."

"Good gracious! How awful. His parents died?"

"No, but he tried to hang himself from a tree on school grounds, out of remorse probably. Liza Murdoch discovered him and got him immediately cut down. Very nasty business…it was horrible, really. Rather than send the lad on to the hospital, the headmaster called on Father since we live fairly close by; frankly I also think they wanted to avoid a scandal if they could. The lad was choked blue in the face, deprived of oxygen and was never really right again after that. Father discovered the boy had numerous old scars, burns, broken bones—many signs of severe abuse. I was outraged—we take care of animals better than we do our children! Because Mr. Murdoch had recruited Clayton to the school, he took special interest in the boy, so I helped him get to the bottom of what happened, and between us we got Mr. Bowles jailed and the boy into an institution where he could be properly cared for. It was quite the challenge convincing a judge to take action but we did it!"

Dennie saw how passionate Jules was with her story. _That_ was the first glimpse of the fierce Julia Ogden she remembered. It gave Dennie hope that Jules would recover from her grief and maybe even stronger for the tragedy of it. She took Julia's hand across the table and gave it a good squeeze and motioned towards the Inn's tiny office.

Mr. Crabtree was approaching their table with a file folder, calling over his shoulder to his wife. "Edna? May we have some more tea?" He straightened up, and took Julia's gaze directly. She was more attune to reading the unspoken on a person's face—something had taken the humour out of the innkeeper's usually jolly face. Julia had a sudden dull pain in her gut and for a minute her breath was hard to get, as if her corset was laced too tightly. _Good lord, what did he find?_

"Ladies? I think I have something for you," he said and laid the pages down in from of both women. He coughed nervously. "You say your husband told you these investments were doing poorly."

"Yes, Mr. Crabtree." Julia studied his high forehead, large hooded eyes, fair skin and dark hair. It was his eyes that worried her.

"You can see this column is for the number of shares and this one what he received after the sale," he pointed out.

"Yes. My husband explained that he was selling them in order to prevent any further losses. He was going to set the money aside and invest in something else that would be somehow better. Of the stocks he has not yet sold off, I was hopeful you could tell me what they are worth and how I might be able to cash them in."

"I see…." George frowned.

Julia knew that look. It was the one she gave family members who were worried about a loved one; the look that made the family members guess at bad news so she herself did not have to utter the devastating words. Just like her patients she felt compelled to ask. "What is it? Are the stocks as worthless as I feared?"

"Y…yes and no…" He stuttered. "There was a stock scare in 1896, but the market has recovered. These are actually good investments. I can attest to that myself. In fact I have often thought that a portfolio of all the largest, dividend-paying stocks might be an effective way of investing…but I digress. These books indicate he received only about five hundred dollars."

"Yes. That is about what we calculated. That is a substantial amount of money, a loss of course on the original investment, but I understand that happens…Actually, Mr. Crabtree, I understand much better now that you have explained it to me. What I am interested is the current value." Julia heard the Inn's doors open and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She wanted to get this over rapidly and as privately as possible, so she waved her hand to get Mr. Crabtree talking.

George cleared his throat, feeling awful having to say what he found. "Nurse Ogden, the real problem is not the value of what is left – I think it is about another nine hundred dollars since most of it was sold. The real problem is that the value of the stocks was five times that. I am afraid your husband was, was, um, misrepresenting that to you…"

Julia felt her face flush with heat. "You mean he was stealing from me?" Her pulse pounded in her ears. Besides her, Dennie gave a wide-eyed gasped.

"Mrs. Walters, there is a possible silver lining here…A way that he might have made it up to you." Julia heard Mr. Crabtree's voice drop to a whisper, his eyes also getting rounded. "This notation about Canada Life is not an investment, it is a life insurance policy."

Julia felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She turned in her seat.

Inspector Slorach was standing right there glowering at her, with two constables at his side. It was obvious he overheard most if not all of the exchange. "Mrs. Walters," he announced. "Please come back to the station with me, we have some questions for you." He turned to the innkeeper. "And I will take that file as well, Mr. Crabtree, with our thanks. You have just given us a possible motive for Dr. Walters' death."

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Mrs. Carter, Mr. Brackenreid and Mr. Crabtree stood with William in the Flower Inn's dining room. They had run out of objections to Detective Slorach's 'request' for Nurse Ogden's presence at the station house. She ended up going willingly enough, but not before asking for help.

 _Wisely so,_ thought Brackenreid. "The widow is always a suspect," he intoned ominously.

"Sir, you cannot be serious. Nurse Ogden's character is above reproach." William complained.

"Aye, her reputation is top notch, I agree. But they do not know her personally; they only go by what has gone before in their experience. She is a woman doing a kind of job which juries will not like, and who knows what the investigating will uncover about her husband?"

"A jury? Surely it will not come to that! She could hardly have any motive," William looked around at his companions for confirmation.

"She was not arrested," Mrs. Carter pointed out. "This must blow over soon."

Mr. Crabtree, in turn, said nothing, a guilty look on his face.

"Look, you three. It does not matter." Brackenreid said more loudly than he intended. "If Dr. Walters brought his death upon himself, then his scandal will attach to her and probably just give that detective more motive for her doing her husband in. It will be sordid no matter which way it goes."

William tried to rebuff that tactfully. "Alderman, I believe her innocence will be her best defense. Surely the law requires proof and since there can be no such thing, the focus will be on the real killer."

"Bloody Hell!" Brackenreid's guffaw startled his companions. "I was right before that this will be a bad business. I saw the innocent hang and the guilty go free when I was a constable." Brackenreid crossed his arms and grunted. "I know I said we should stay out of it," he darted a glare at George. "However, I changed my mind. Mrs. Walters needs a positive witness for her whereabouts at the time of the death, and I suggest the investigation follow the money. Never mind calling her father; I am immediately calling a barrister on her behalf and filling him in with what we know. Eventually he will need more. Crabtree? Can you reconstruct the information you handed over?"

"I can help—I have all of Mrs. Walters' papers at her home." Mrs. Carter offered, and the innkeeper accepted.

William had been running scenarios in his head, searching for a method to prove her innocence. "I'd like to study the evidence. It is not the first time I have consulted on a case for the constabulary… perhaps I can discover something useful. I still cannot imagine she is capable of shooting her husband, no matter the supposed provocation and I have a mind of telling the Chief Constable so."

George added: "Besides, being a medical person, she must know many other more, shall we say, subtle methods of disposing of a husband. Nurse Ogden has helped me a time or two with my mystery novels figure out a clever way to murder someone so I hardly think…."

Brackenreid groaned at Crabtree's earnest, sincere face and at Murdoch's confident expression. "You are not helping…either of you. Between the two of you they'll wonder why you, Murdoch, have such an interest in her that you will insert yourself into the investigation, and why you, Crabtree, consulted a homicidally-inclined nurse!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you for your reviews… it keeps me writing. You do want to know how it all turns out, don't you?**

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 **~ Chapter Nine~**

 _ **~ Station No. 4**_

Julia sat ram-rod straight at a large plain table, refusing to betray any of the inner tumult of her thoughts and feelings through her demeanor. The wood-paneled room was dark with two wall sconces for light, a plain door and mesh-covered observation window. Detective Slorach deposited her there perhaps twenty minutes ago without comment, giving her nothing to do but think. She kept her chin up and made sure she did not sigh or fidget, having learned decorum from a very young age. _My father and my governess would be so very proud!_ She grumbled sarcastically to herself. Her corset hardly gave her much choice of posture and was digging painfully under her breasts, making her impatient to get home and have it off.

Sitting thus at a large rectangular table, waiting on her 'fate' to be determined by yet another man, she could not prevent childhood memories of enduring her father's disapproval, meted out at a similarly sized dining table. Somehow, in the past, Julia was the one who was always crossing swords with him. _Father seemed to hold me to a higher, more rigid standard than Ruby_ , her younger, softer, more socially-clever sister. Her memories noted all the various times she contradicted his wishes by joyfully, _or stubbornly_ , flouting Society's rules for young ladies.

 _Father never understood the difference between my knowing the rules and agreeing to keep them!_ One good outcome: her father's constant displeasure taught her how to be defiant against being cowed, a handy lesson in this unexpected situation.

She flicked her eyes to the back of the constable's head which she could see through the window's grill, with disquiet growing in her gut. _Initially I thought this was absurd; now I am not quite as certain._ She was in a station house interview room, anticipating being accused of murdering her husband, a husband whose memory was being corrupted by more revelations of his deceitfulness with each passing day.

Her guard moved aside to open the room's door, admitting Detective Slorach. Another constable put a shallow box on the table then closed the door behind him. She suspected that it was Inspector Lamb who was now eavesdropping by the observation post.

"Mrs. Walters. I have some questions for you." Detective Slorach settled in to a chair opposite hers and opened his jacket. He fished one of the documents from his box to place on the table. "Are you sure you had no knowledge of your husband's purchase of these life insurance plans?" He made the inquiry sound mild, however Julia was not reassured by his bland face.

"No, detective, I had no knowledge. Mr. Crabtree had to explain to me what Canada Life even was. My understanding now is that most of these companies go bankrupt, so it seems to me to be another one of my husband's financial schemes, no matter what the policy says."

"Yes…his financial schemes. It seems you are aware he was draining your mother's inheritance." Slorach laid a new piece of paper out on the table.

Julia was still trying to understand upon what basis she was a suspect, since she did not know any of that information until after the fact. She said so, but the detective merely nodded, appearing to take no stock in her answer, going on with his recitation.

"And what about his Last Will and Testament?" Slorach unfolded another thick document. "He re-wrote it very recently…less than four weeks ago in fact. It asks that his debts be paid from his estate."

Julia's thoughts were moving fast. "Yes. I was the one who told _you_ that! I was unaware he updated his Will, but I imagine one does that as a matter of course. As for payment of debts…I told you my husband would not renege on an obligation…"

"The life insurance company is absolutely solid. Is there anything you wish to tell me?" The detective waited expectantly.

Julia stared back, unsure what to make of the detective's statement and question. _This does not add up! What does he want?_ She took in a breath to speak, "I…." but she was interrupted by the door swinging open.

"Detective, I am Mr. Alister Gordon," a dignified man of about fifty with intelligent eyes under sweeping brows announced himself to the room. In a clear, firm voice he said, "I am representing Mrs. Walters and I am advising she does not answer any more of your questions." He carefully placed a leather briefcase on the table, while remaining standing by Julia's shoulder.

Julia's jaw fell open a moment before she recalled herself enough to begin protesting.

Mr. Gordon interrupted her again. "Mrs. Walters, Alderman Brackenreid alerted me of your situation, and as a favour to him I am here to protect your rights. We can discuss the particulars once I get you out of here and home."

Under other circumstances, Julia might have been enraged at the high-handedness of the alderman, displayed by arbitrarily sending this man over to the stationhouse as if she were incapable of knowing her own mind, or a child requiring paternalistic protection. ' _Out of here and home_ ,' however, sounded wonderful. Careful not to let on how relieved she was, she told him. "Yes, we will indeed discuss this…once I am released."

"Crown Prosecutor Gordon?" Slorach asked. "It would seem improper for you…"

"Not improper at all. I have resigned that position and now I have the honour to defend people at the bar." Mr. Gordon made a habit of interruption it seemed. "Now, Detective….Slorach I believe it is? Please lay out for me what evidence you have against my client."

Julia saw the detective blink in irritated confusion. He actually harrumphed, before straightening up to begin his presentation. "Mrs. Walters, Mr. Gordon. We believe that you, Mrs. Walters, learned of your husband's financial dealings and became enraged at this. We have witness statements that you and he argued…your own father and housekeeper in fact. However, financial loss was not your only motive, I imagine it was the deception. You learned that he changed his will and that he obtained a life insurance policy—by killing him you get revenge on him for ruining you financially and also get the proceeds of the policy."

Julia's heart was racing. Put that way, it sounded damning. Mr. Gordon placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Detective Slorach. If a man's poor judgement about the family money was sufficient motive for murder, many more husbands would end up in the morgue. Mrs. Walters has her own income and her father is well off. Her husband's debt might have been difficult, but under no circumstances would it leave her destitute, undercutting her motive. In addition, I believe you have a list of other potential suspects who have much greater motives, for instance, Mrs. Walters gave you information on a Mr. Marshall Kingman, I believe."

Julia saw the detective check with whomever was observing the interview, swallow, and then plow on. He shook out a large, brown envelope, displaying the contents on the table. "I am not at liberty to discuss other interviews with you. Mrs. Walters, the gun that killed your husband was a .22, and this is a holster for a .22 pistol your father identified as belonging to him. This gun is missing…." Slorach paused to see if he'd be interrupted. When the barrister waved him on, he continued. "I believe you used the gun that belongs in here to kill your husband, and disposed of the weapon…."

This time Julia was the one to burst out, decorum tossed aside. "I did no such thing!"

"I submit to you, Mrs. Walters, that you took the pony trap out as you say, but you returned, perhaps to confront your husband when you knew your father would not be at home, when your housekeeper was going about her duties and when there would be no patients at the practice. Perhaps you argued about his behaviors? To convince him to come clean with you? And when he lied again, or laughed at you, or said no… when he argued back, you flew into a rage and shot him dead."

Julia was appalled. She really could not believe her ears, could not believe the accusations. "That is not what happened!"

Detective Slorach cocked his head. "No, I think you are right—not a fit of rage. You calculated when he'd be alone, retrieved the weapon…"

She felt her mouth go dry and her throat tighten. "That is not true!" Her voice was suddenly raspy.

"…Loaded the bullet into the chamber…"

"I did not!" She looked desperately at Mr. Gordon, hoping he was going to intervene and stop this hateful tirade. He was only silent, watching and listening intently.

"…And cold-bloodedly removed the single biggest threat to your financial future." Detective Slorach finished with a flourish.

Julia practically shouted. "I did not, I did not!" Her ears rung. She almost stood up, the pressure of the moment urging her to her feet. She held onto the table, her fingers tightly grasping the edge to keep her seat. Julia's heart was pounding and it was hard to draw breath, a trickle of sweat ran down her back, and her ribs felt crushed. _Help me!_ she screamed in her head to her, _apparently useless_ , attorney.

Mr. Gordon cleared his throat, and spoke plainly, quietly. "Detective, I believe you are being premature."

"Oh, do you now?" The detective's face twisted into a cynical mask. "I have yet to track down the person that can provide Mrs. Walters' alibi. In fact, the person she says she was with at the time of the murder denies it."

 _What? That cannot be!_ Julia thought the detective was virtually crowing. She expected to be handcuffed and taken to the cells any minute, her fear swerving between her own welfare and her patient's. _Where is Katie Tough?_

"Detective," Mr. Gordon continued in a calm, authoritative voice. "Is Mrs. Walters under arrest?" There was a long pause and no response from the detective. Outside in the hallway, a silhouette shook his head.

Julia's heart hammered, double time.

Mr. Gordon continued. "Just as I thought. You have suppositions, a weak motive, no weapon, no physical evidence and no witnesses. Lack of an alibi is not proof of anything. Mrs. Walters has been completely cooperative and will continue to be so, but only accompanied by her representative and only with proper court orders." He picked up his leather case. "You have better suspects and will need to do a better job building a case against the actual murderer than you have presented to me today. I suggest you revisit, I believe the name is Mr. Marshal Kingman? Furthermore, I demand copies of everything you have taken from my client and a copy of the autopsy report—my clerk will be along in about fifteen minutes. _We,_ are leaving _now._ Good day."

Julia felt as if she had floated away from her body—it was unreal to hear Mr. Gordon pronounce her freedom, take her wordlessly by the elbow and guide her out of the interview room, through the station and out on to the street. It took a while for her to refocus on her savior. "Thank you, Mr. Gordon. I cannot tell you how grateful I am." She rewarded him with a genuine smile and deep appreciation. "May, I…."

Mr. Gordon raised a hand. "Mrs. Walters, do not thank me. Not yet. I have to be honest. With the preponderance of evidence, they are looking at you as their primary suspect."

"I didn't do it."

"And if that's true, you have very little to worry about. I must have a chance to speak with you privately, at which time you must answer me truthfully or I will not continue to represent you. Do you understand me?"

Julia's relief at being out of the room carried her forward. "Of course, I…" Her smile did not waver, not at first, then a tendril of fear coiled around her neck.

"Mrs. Walters, I told the truth to Detective Slorach. They do not have a very good case against you, but I have seen cases with less evidence be successfully prosecuted, and innocent persons wrongly convicted because of the incompetence of the defense. It is why I changed tables in the court room. The constabulary will go to the Crown for an indictment, probably tomorrow or the next day."

Mr. Gordon paused for emphasis, sending a cold wave over Julia's optimism. "Make no mistake: when they do, you _will_ be arrested."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"…Because I warned you to be patient, detective. This is not like treeing a bear with your hound, as you so colorfully put it. This is more like stalking a deer." Inspector Lamb was trying very hard not to excoriate his detective, but his performances in the interview room had been painful to observe. "You laid out too much for Gordon and got nothing in return." Lamb lowered his voice. "You have to do better in order to make an arrest, never mind get a conviction. Did you think she was going to confess, just like that?"

Slorach's face slumped. He did indeed think he was going to bully a confession out of Mrs. Walters, triumphantly showing off to his new boss his powers of deduction and persuasion. He lifted his eyes. "Sir, I am sorry I got carried away. How would you like me to proceed?"

"Find someone who saw Mrs. Walters near her home during the time of death. Interview those roofers again, all of them, this time instead of asking about suspicious persons, ask about Mrs. Walters and her pony trap. The same for the neighbors. And while you are at it, clear Mr. Kingman as a suspect since that gives the defense an alternate theory of the case-hands them reasonable doubt," Lamb ordered. "I told the Chief Constable we were close to an arrest." He paused. He did want to produce a suspect and make an arrest, but Mrs. Walters seemed quite genuine when she denied killing her husband, sending some doubt into Lamb's mind. "Are you certain the widow is guilty?"

Slorach sat up. "Yes. Yes I am. She lied about where she was. It's just as your theory proposed, inspector, but the motive was rage or hate—the opposite of love. Who else but a lover can turn one kind of passion into another? That's how you get someone to forget themselves and shoot a man in the face while he is looking at you!"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 _ **~ Rosedale**_

William gathered all his vast patience to wait it out while Nurse Ogden finished conversing with her legal counsel in the next room over. He was no longer certain why he was here, second-guessing his offer to examine the evidence, which seemed in retrospect to have been presumptuous. The only thing he was sure of was a strong, visceral instinct to help.

Mr. Crabtree, with Mrs. Carter's assistance, already completed his financial summary then departed, leaving William and Mrs. Carter to stare mutely at each other with a large envelope between them, their shared concern growing as the minute hand dragged itself around the face of a mahogany case clock in the Ogden's family sitting room. Mrs. Hastings came with tea and sandwiches which remained untouched, and as for Dr. Ogden, he had retreated to his rooms above.

William could not make out the actual words, but he had no difficulty imagining what was happening beyond those pocket doors dividing the double parlour: Nurse Ogden's tone went from outraged, to pleading, to now silent, as Mr. Gordon's voice droned on. William worried: _These are never comfortable conversations-_ _I've overheard or participated in many such at Sommerbank between students and faculty, or faculty and Headmaster, the outcome always being a foregone conclusion._

Suddenly the doors rolled open. Mr. Gordon preceded Nurse Ogden over to where William and Mrs. Carter sat. In the other parlour behind them, William could see the bier with Dr. Walters' coffin already in place. He rose politely, eyeing the widow whose shoulders were stiff and whose cheeks carried two bright spots of colour.

"Mr. Murdoch, Mrs. Carter. I have explained to Mrs. Walters that she has a short amount of time to unequivocally clear her name. She seems to think her friends and acquaintances can be helpful in that regard; I have advised against this. I have told her that puts those individuals in the position of being potential witnesses. Witnesses who must swear to tell the truth. Witnesses who can be cross examined or called for the prosecution. For instance, were I the crown prosecutor, I would already be drawing up Mr. Crabtree as a witness _against_ Mrs. Walters, which will not help Mrs. Walters nor his own reputation in the city."

 _Does Mr. Crabtree know this..?_ William was shocked at the idea. _I imagine not._

"Mrs. Walters. Please go about your business of grieving. Your husband's body is here, his wake is tomorrow. Stay home. Plan his funeral. I am going to do my very best to keep you out of the papers and out of jail." With that, Alister Gordon placed his hat on his head and bade adieu.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Julia showed the attorney out, feeling conflicted and afraid by what the man had explained to her. She took a moment by the door, holding her hand on the firm wood as if trying to hold back the truth, hoping to stiffen her resolve. She understood, finally, the devastating logic Mr. Gordon laid out for her; and she had, finally, told him every embarrassing, sordid detail of her life with her husband. Julia felt dirty, and very, _very,_ reluctant to bring anyone else into her shame.

Julia pushed her hair into place, using the hall mirror. She looked back at herself, red-brown braid of hair coming loose from its pins and circles under bloodshot eyes. Mr. Gordon had been insistent that she act as a befitting her station as the widow of a respected doctor and observe the mourning rituals expected of her. _He made it sound as if my life depended on it._

Julia blew out a breath, watching her hair move in reaction and examined her own face again: the set of her chin, the arch of her brows, and the line of her mouth so much like her father's. She was never before struck so powerfully by the similarities before—and in more than just appearance. _The problem is, Julia, you are stubborn. You are used to saving others; and after being failed by so many, you are afraid to trust anyone else to save you_.

Turning back to the parlour, Julia knew what she wanted to do, come Hell or high water. _Damned what my attorney wants me to do!_ Dennie and Mr. Murdoch were already on their feet when she entered the room.

"Well," Dennie began. "Mr. Gordon doesn't really know you very well, does he?"

Julia felt a rush of warmth towards her friend, going so far as to embrace her. "Oh, Dennie, what would I do without you?" She disengaged to look at her friend and Mr. Murdoch. "Thank you for your kindness and offers to help. However, I cannot allow you to become any more involved. I do plan to go against my attorney's advice in all respects except one: I will not jeopardize your reputations by helping me."

"Don't be foolish, Jules. You are only one person and you have little time. Mr. Gordon is correct in that you must fulfill your obligations as Joseph's widow. At least his sister has postponed her arrival until tomorrow, so we have tonight and tomorrow morning to get things done." Dennie crossed her arms over her chest and did not budge.

"I happen to agree." William stepped forward, his doubts silenced by how harshly Mr. Gordon had treated Nurse Ogden. "Please. I am not as concerned about my reputation as I am with the threat to you. With your permission, at least let me look at the evidence with you and then you can decide how to proceed." He decided to add: "You and I both know what it takes to make a persuasive argument," hoping she would recall how they had gotten to the painful truth together, once before.

Dennie and Mr. Murdoch had such different expressions on their faces it almost made her laugh: Dennie was blazing with wrath and the teacher was calm and steady. _Oh, these two…How can I refuse?_

"Indeed." Julia said with a decisive nod. "Since I wish to exercise my own mind I cannot then question your own judgement in these matters." She gave a weak smile in acknowledgement. "I have several concerns about Mr. Gordon's admonishment—mostly that I cannot imagine anyone will be as diligent on my behalf as I myself can be, or as interested and affected by the outcome. It will be a great help to organize my own defense if you will be so kind as to assist me with several problems."

She gestured them to be seated, then continued while standing. "The first problem is that the woman whom I attended on Friday has apparently told the constabulary I was not with her." She pulled the pocket door shut against the sight of her husband's coffin— _enough time tomorrow for that_. "Detective Slorach thinks the gun that killed Joseph was my father's target pistol. I have no idea where that old thing is or was in the house, but that it is missing seems to be a damning piece of evidence against me. Thirdly, as much as it pains me to think so, I believe Mr. Kingman may be responsible for Joseph's death since he will be made financially whole because of Joseph's Will and that insurance policy."

"Jules, while you and Mr. Gordon were speaking, a messenger brought this." Dennie handed Julia an envelope.

Inside, Julia discovered the coroner's report. "Oh." She'd almost forgotten asking for it. She felt that coldness again wash over her, noticing her hand tremble making the pages flutter slightly. _Wanting something and then having it are apparently quite different emotionally._ She sighed. _I think I need a drink._

Holding the pages as if they were some noisome thing, Julia set them down on the tea table, then went to the credenza and poured herself a whisky without checking the time of day to see if wine or sherry were more socially acceptable. She kept her back to her companions, asking of either wished to join her. Both declined, making her feel worse. Defiantly she brought her glass to the table to sit and begin to read. "I think we shall start with this. Mr. Murdoch, you said you wanted to go over evidence?"

"Yes. I have an idea about a French technique for proving that a certain projectile can correspond to a single barrel, and only that barrel, if the weapon were to be found," William offered. A voracious reader, he often ran across an interesting bit of applied science, finding it useful in inspiring his students to learn the often dry theories and formulae.

"Excellent! That means you can match the bullet with the gun it was fired from?" Dennie enthused, immediately understanding the implication.

Julia was curious, slower to make the connection. "Match the bullet?"

"Yes, a Frenchman has been doing some excellent work…Monsieur Lacassagne," William was about to go on before catching himself. _This was not a classroom._

"I see. Dennie, while I read this, will you show Mr. Murdoch where Joseph…?" Julia stopped, it was still hard to say it.

Dennie rescued her. "Of course. Mr. Murdoch, this way please."

Julia did not want to read the report while any one else was looking at her. _If I break down I want no one to see…_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **~Station No. 4**_

 _Acting_ Detective Slorach organized the five constables at his disposal. He dispatched a pair to interview the roofers again—it was still light out so they were likely at the job site. Hodge and one constable were sent off to locate and bring Mr. Kingman in for another interview to solidify his alibi. Slorach took another man with him in the police carriage, back to canvass the Ogden neighborhood. Inspector Lamb's final words were firm: _Call on those Society houses no matter the time of day or even if a dinner is going to be interrupted or a party is in full swing. Get to the bottom of this, now!_

Slorach knew that if he did not get this right, he may not be destined to keep Toronto Constabulary Detective's shield after all.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	10. Chapter 10

**~Chapter Ten~**

 _ **~Rosedale**_

Julia read and re-read the passage. _**'….well developed, healthy, thirty five year old Caucasian gentleman. Heart and lungs of normal weight and volume, tissues clean and viable. Liver shows some evidence of fatty deposits. No signs of any illness or disease as evidenced by blood and tissue samples. No scars. No evidence of broken bones. No contusions on the body. No evidence of injection marks, cuts, scrapes or broken skin. Normal genitals…'**_

 _No signs of illness or disease…Normal genitals…_

Julia had not wanted to think about it, even to herself, and resisted saying any of her dark suspicions to anyone –even Dennie. Knowing that Joseph was _not_ a carrier of a venereal disease was a relief. She could now convince herself he was not having an affair, or taking his needs to a prostitute, yet the revelation brought up more questions than it answered. _Why had Joseph gone from wanting a child, even supported my investigation with Isaac Tash about improving fertility, to sleeping apart and insisting on prophylactic methods if we did engage in marital relations?_

In Julia's guts, she had assumed Joseph had become infected with syphilis or gonorrhea and did not wish to pass it on to her. That was understandable—as well as humiliating. _Now I have no explanation at all._ She was so engrossed she left half her whisky in the glass and did not hear the tap on the door frame announcing Dennie and the teacher were back.

"Jules? Jules? Mr. Murdoch has explained more about Monsieur Lacassagne's work. It is very clever…"

"Yes. The coroner will have removed the bullet, so it is a simple matter of…" William stopped when he saw Nurse Ogden grimace.

"I am sorry, Mr. Murdoch." Julia put the pages down. She could not keep her eyes from trying to see through the wooden doors and into Joseph's coffin in the next room. "There is no bullet to compare—it fragmented after impact. The coroner determined it was a .22 caliber from the entrance wound and by, er… weighing the pieces."

All three of them were silent while imagining exactly what the coroner had to do to accomplish that. Dennie looked crushed.

William's initial hopes dashed, he started thinking furiously again. "That is too bad. Nurse Ogden, does the report say if there was gunshot residue on his skin near the wound?"

"No. It mentions specifically that there was none. It speculates that the shot came from at least five feet away. Why? How does that help?" Julia was hunting desperately for a solution.

"Did the detective say there was a shell casing found at the scene?" William saw Julia shake her head _'No.'_ His mind projected dozens of possible scenes in his head, visualizing the room where her husband met his death. "What if the gun that shot the bullet was not a hand gun-what if it was a rifle? That would mean that the shot came from outside the room."

Dennie gasped. "That's brilliant. That can destroy their ridiculous theory of the crime of Jules shooting him with her father's missing pistol!"

William agreed. "We would need evidence to counter the constabulary's supposition. I think Mrs. Carter and I may have found something."

William brought them back to her consulting room. He went to the windows and brought them open, allowing the lace curtain to flutter. He then stood on the other side of the desk where Dr. Walter's body was found. William noticed an area of the carpet that had obviously been cleaned of a small bit of…. _Something._ He began, as if lecturing to a set of students.

"What if Dr. Walters was standing here in your father's consultation room and instead of being shot from across the desk, he'd been shot at from across the street? If you look carefully at the curtain, which Mrs. Carter assures me it is called Battenberg lace, an area of the lace has been ripped, which at first did not seem to be important… in fact it was hardly noticeable when she and I examined this room. I submit it is possible to calculate if a shot from that distance," he pointed out the window with an extended arm, "did damage to the curtain _and_ to Dr. Walters."

"But how do we prove it?" Dennie was sure this was important.

Julia was holding Mr. Murdoch's gaze intently. By his expression he had a very good idea what that would be, and she wondered if she had the gumption to do what was necessary.

Dennie kept looking from Julia to William.

Julia downed her forgotten drink in one gulp, then opened her mouth to speak. _"By examining…"_

" _By examining her husband's body."_ William was unhappy with the idea in the extreme, even as he said the words in unison with her. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

William and Julia worked quickly, while Dennie kept Mrs. Hastings distracted. Joseph's casket-lid was pried loose, allowing a waft of sickly-sweet air to escape; William completed the sign of the cross when the body was revealed.

"Are you going to be comfortable with this, Mr. Murdoch?" Nurse Ogden asked. She had become so familiar with death that it only now occurred to her to inquire.

"I learned many years ago we have nothing to fear from the dead." He kept trying to tell himself he was not desecrating a corpse, _per se_ ; he was seeking the facts, so he said so. "You wish to know the truth, something I admire—I have never flinched from that my whole life." He gestured, "We need to determine the angle of the bullet. How shall we proceed?"

"We will look to see what the entry wound and skull will tell us—look for beveling for instance." She hesitated only briefly when it came to Joseph's face, then took the crumpled white handkerchief she'd been holding on to for days, and placed it over his face leaving only his forehead exposed. She used her fingers to easily stretch the skin away from the wound. She knew that was going to be possible because the coroner would have separated the scalp from the skull to examine the entrance wound, before sawing off the top of the head to remove the brain. In this case, the coroner's report discovered that all the bullet fragments were at the back of the skull, so the whole organ was not dissected. Julia though it was odd: that was hardly a text-book autopsy. She wondered what other corners were cut, but decided to worry about that later since it gave an advantage: the wound track inside the brain was intact.

Julia was surprised at how steady her hand was. "Mr. Murdoch, what can you see?"

William brought out a small magnifier from an inside jacket pocket. He ignored the fact that it was _his_ handkerchief that Nurse Ogden had placed on her deceased husband's face. He took a breath of plain air and bent over the body, using a lamp to achieve some shadows, thereby enhancing the edges of the wound. "I see a slight differential between the top of the hole and the bottom. That may indicate angle of entry. I assume the angle was explicit in the autopsy report?"

"Yes. Twenty-three degrees. The coroner speculates Joseph was bend over slightly, but I am skeptical of how thorough the autopsy was done. We can verify it by inserting a small rod into the hole, following the initial path of the bullet."

William fished in his jacket, bringing out a protractor and a pencil. He merely shrugged when her eyes widened. "I teach science, Nurse Ogden. I assume you have your tools of your trade with you, do you not? I have a slide rule and measuring tape as well…"

"Julia….please call me Julia, Mr. Murdoch. If we are engaged in such an activity it seems silly to stand on formalities." She had no idea why she blurted that out. _Perhaps I am more nervous than realize._ "I am sorry. That was forward of me, I…"

 _William._ He thought it before he spoke it. "And it's William…Julia." For some reason his heart was racing, and he did not think it was solely because he was about to put a pencil inside a brain. He thought it might be her blue eyes, or the way a curl of her hair escaped its confines. His awareness of her was powerful in that moment.

 _Get a grip, William!_ he argued at himself. He coughed, breaking the spell. "Why don't you place it and I will measure…." Hairs on the back of his neck rose ominously. He knew he was being watched.

" _ **What do you think you're doing, Julia..?"**_

Lionel Ogden's voice cut through the room with a sharp crackle. He had come by silently, his spare frame held rigidly upright in the doorway.

William spun around and Julia jumped, dropping the pencil and giving a little yelp. "Father!" She saw her father's dour face, her anger flaring. _It was just like him to treat me like I am still twelve. I know how to answer him now._ "Only what must be done!" She stood glaring at him, trying not to react as if she was a child who was caught out doing wrong by a parent.

"There is no need for any of this unpleasant butchery." Dr. Ogden did not move from the door way, merely crossed his arms over his chest.

Julia did not move an inch either. _Of course Father would disapprove._ "You believe so? Instead of supporting me, you turn up and accuse me of what? Hysteria?" She crossed her own arms in a mirror image of him and continued to glare.

"Dr. Ogden. Your daughter and I believe we have a new theory of Dr. Walters' death, which requires we measure the angle of the bullet's entry—before the wake and before he is interred." William was appalled to be in the middle of such family tension, however he was not going to back down now.

"That is a bit extreme, don't you think?" The older man scoffed. "Then again, you always did take things too far, even as a child." This last he directed at Julia.

"I am not a child anymore…" Julia said through her teeth.

Lionel Ogden shot back with: "…But still defiant."

Julia sighed. She looked at William who was waiting quietly in place. _Waiting for me; knowing_ _that_ _feels very good._ "No… I learned to think dispassionately from you, Father." She turned back to the coffin and her back to her father. "Now if you don't mind, I am going to finish this..."

William turned to the coffin and his protractor, capturing Julia's eyes with his, wordlessly signaling his support. From behind him, Dr. Ogden cast one more order before he shuffled off: "Do not place any object into the wound path, you will contaminate the evidentiary value. When you are done, come talk with me."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

William was glad to have resealed the coffin, offering a prayer for the man's immortal soul with the last turn of the casket key. He brought Julia and Mrs. Carter into the medical consultation room at the front of the house, placing them in position according to his calculations. "Assuming your husband was standing upright, roughly there," he pointed to where Mrs. Hastings discovered the corpse, "the angle we determined, and in the coroner's report is consistent with this angle from his head to the curtain." Julia stood on books to bring her up to her husband's height, and Mrs. Carter held string at an exact angle while William did some calculations. He used a pair of opera glasses, standing on his own set of medical texts, to look through the curtain tear whilst maintaining the same angle. Everyone in the room held their breath.

"If we assume the constant force of gravity and no wind – I can use the phenomenon of parallax to do a rough calculation of distance…." With the glasses positioned through the hole at 23 degrees, he saw the roofline of the house opposite: a mansard roof was flat and offered a perfectly clear shot to the Ogden house. "But I don't think that will be necessary: a rifle on the roof across the way could easily hit an object in this room." William walked to the desk and bent his knees, using his fingers to 'shoot' Julia with arm outstretched. "The angle is all wrong. Nurse Ogden, you are perhaps five feet seven? Perhaps five feet eight inches with your shoes? Look at this. To shoot your husband, who was six feet two inches in height, he would have to be in the oddest position, or you would have to be standing on your chair with your arm over your head!"

Julia felt a shiver as she stood where Joseph had been struck down. As soon as the teacher delivered his results she moved away, out of the line of sight of the window. Her headache, which had started up again after her father caught her with the open coffin, was threatening to wrench her stomach in a way examination of the coffin's contents never did. "Mrs. Kingman mentioned to me that her husband shoots skeet."

Dennie was enthusiastic enough for the two of them. "Jules! With this information, your attorney can instruct the constabulary to start looking more deeply at Mr. Kingman since we have made the case for a different weapon. You will no longer be under any cloud of suspicion." She waved her hand with a smile on her face. "Don't you think that is correct, Mr. Murdoch?"

"That is a valid first assumption. However, in my experience, first assumptions are as often wrong – as they are right. We may have been able to raise reasonable doubt, if it comes to that." William was not as relieved and Julia's friend. "Don't forget, your father was right about one thing: this evidence must still be officially gathered by the constabulary."

He was, however, happy if the investigation could be steered away from Julia. _Julia_ …She looked pale and exhausted to him— _I've been so wrapped up in gathering data I failed to notice this_. "Nurse Ogden, do you need to rest?" he asked solicitously.

She was indeed feeling wrung out, her initial excitement was waning. The next task was even more onerous than the one that came before. "No. Thank you." Julia sighed again, frustrated with herself for such a display of weakness. She straightened her shoulders. "Please give me a moment. I cannot imagine this will take very long; I am off to beard the lion in his den."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Julia found her father in his rooms, entered without knocking and stood by his reading chair, hands on her hips. It was not always confrontation with him, at least not anymore. Over time, their relationship had mellowed, even a sort of understanding developing between them, something which in her younger years she would have found impossible to predict. In another life she might have made an art out of unconventional behaviours by trying to emulate her father in the one way that dashed her hopes—her unrealized dream of becoming a doctor-making a bitter meal out of defiance instead. She _used_ to believe that the only way for them to tolerate each other was to remain estranged, but living and working so closely together for years, smoothed away some of that grit which stood in the way of their relationship. Unfortunately ( _or was it inevitably?)_ his recent behaviors put much more sand and gravel between them again. If it had not been absolutely necessary, she would never expose herself to the pain right now.

"You called me here because you wanted to tell me something?" Julia wasted no time with any salutation, fully prepared for a confrontation. She set her jaw and narrowed her eyes in a mirror image of her father's face. Having been summoned, she waited. Impatiently.

"And what do you suppose that was?" Her father flared back at her, before obviously reining himself in. "Perhaps you were worried that someone was trying to kill you."

The words were like a slap. "What are you talking about?" she asked, trying to keep her own emotions in check.

"Julia, only _you_ ever use that consultation room any more. I myself am hardly there, I see so few patients, only my old-timers. Joseph probably only wanted to borrow a pencil…you know how often he broke them." His voice was breathy.

She thought her father's mind must be feverish to make such an outrageous speculation, and it was giving her a headache. "Why would someone want to kill _me_? That's ridiculous. I am not the one with enemies!"

"Your emotions are clouding your analytical mind. Inspector Lamb called me. He wanted to confirm what you informed him about your husband's arrangement with Marshall Kingman. I explained what I told you: that Joseph owed money and asked to borrow it from me and that I refused. That was when Joseph made the Canada Life purchase and changed his will…." He stopped and his hawk-like gaze pinned her. "Julia, Joseph also purchased a policy on your life. A policy payable to him. That's a motive for killing you as much as for killing Joseph, if Kingman knew about both policies, meaning that…"

Julia's head felt like something pierced her skull. "…Meaning that by Mr. Kingman killing _me,_ Joseph gets the money to pay him off? Father! That is absurd! You are being ghoulish." Whatever détente had existed between herself and her father was now damaged beyond repair. "Why are you telling me such a thing? Perhaps it is to assuage your conscience, because it was _your_ refusal to lend money to my husband which directly led to his death?!" She turned on her father, hands gesturing angrily. "Do you really believe Joseph was not the intended target, he was killed instead of me..?" Julia was rapidly enraged, her chest heaving in agitation.

"… **Or are you actually telling me Joseph conspired with Mr. Kingman to kill me for the money, and Joseph was killed by mistake..!?"** She was shouting so loudly she never heard the door open and close behind her. A shadow and rustle of skirts announced Mrs. Hill's arrival.

"Mrs. Walters? I am sorry to interrupt, but what is going on here? The whole household can hear you. Can you not see your father is ill and in distress?" Mrs. Hill's voice was gentle, but firm.

" **Damn his distress!"** was Julia's answer to that and she flung out of the room.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	11. Chapter 11

**~Chapter Eleven~**

 _ **~ Station No. 4**_

"Did he say why he was there, Hodge?" Inspector Lamb asked the constable under his breath as they both stood outside the station interrogation room. Beyond the grill, Marshall Kingman was pacing the room, unable to sit still while he waited for the inspector.

"No sir. He seemed so…nervous, when we found him at the rail yard. Contradicted himself he did. We thought for a minute he might be fleeing the area, considering all the trains and that he had a valise with him."

Hodge's feet and legs ached painfully from hunting Mr. Kingman all over Toronto – finally locating him at the city freight yard where the man ostensibly had gone on business. Hodge was _so_ looking forward to his new promotion as Sergeant, if for no other reason it took him permanently off foot patrol. The position, the responsibility and the pay were nothing compared to the relief on his feet! "Sir, we know he has changed his story more than once, and was not shooting skeet as he claimed. Now he says he went to the rifle club, but decided against shooting to take a nice walk in the woods instead. My instincts say there is more."

"Everybody lies, Hodge. We know that. Everyone has secrets they do not want revealed. The question is from whom, and exactly what, he is hiding." Lamb was thoughtful.

"Well sir, it's easier to lie about things you've lived," Hodge offered that bit of wisdom from his many years on the job, "so he used his habit of going to his club to shoot as a cover for other activities. Maybe he was merely hiding from his wife something he preferred she did not know; I wonder if Mrs. Kingman understands about her financial situation any more than Mrs. Walters knew about hers." The two men looked at each other. "Sir, could Mrs. Walters really have killed her husband out of revenge for his lies and for nearly bankrupting them—essentially stealing from her?" He nodded to Kingman who was still pacing, "Or because Dr. Walters was choosing Mr. Kingman's financial welfare over her own?"

"That is hardly a noble motive, and makes her no less a murderer." Lamb put his hand on the door knob. "We know Mrs. Walters is lying about where she was. I am going to find out what Mr. Kingman is hiding. You go bring his wife in, and we'll see what happens when we stir the pot."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **~Cabbagetown**_

Julia gave herself a draught of Willlowbark extract for her head, then called Mr. Gordon's office to leave a message outlining what she and William concluded regarding a shooter positioned across the street, and making sure Gordon understood their information on Mr. Kingman. Dennie and Mrs. Hastings were busy finishing preparations for Joseph's sister's arrival and arranging the house for the following day's wake. _The decision for a closed coffin was fortuitous_ , Julia thought. Her father shut himself in his rooms, banishing even Mrs. Hill, which suited Julia just fine.

For her part, she was determined to see about Katie Tough. " _I need to speak with her,"_ she had insisted, over the objections of the entire household.

" _Well, only if I go with you. I won't be persuaded otherwise."_ This was from William Murdoch. Much to Julia's relief, he was the only one who did not outright block her idea. He had been rather determined to help as well, bustling off to get the pony trap harnessed by Mr. Granger.

"You don't have that much time," he told her. "Get in, I'll drive."

She had no choice but to comply, shoving a long pin through her black chapeau and getting into the carriage seat.

That was twenty minutes ago. Julia's headache lifted but she fidgeted more the closer they rode to Dyer Lane, plucking the edge of the handkerchief in her lap. "I am very worried about Mrs. Tough, worried that something must have happened to her. I cannot for the life of me understand why she would deny that I was with her, considering I was there for hours. Besides, someone else would have _had_ to see me!" She was scared for Katie, wondering what could have happened. So many images intruded into her thoughts she squeezed her eyes shut against them.

' _For the life of me,' indeed._ William considered her words literally. _Julia might be right about that._ "I think you need to start worrying about yourself. We need to find someone who can verify your story." His hope was that they could do so without being charged with intimidating a witness or interfering with an investigation.

Julia was instantly defensive, her headache threatening again. "My ' _story'_?" Her hands kneaded her black skirt, rutching the fabric into wrinkles with her damp palms.

"You know what I mean." William maneuvered the vehicle through traffic, trying to decide what would be encouraging without being patronizing. "If not Mrs. Tough, then someone else. Besides, perhaps Detective Slorach was lying about your patient's statement, or exaggerating. I know the authorities manipulate suspects that way."

She reviewed the triumph in Detective Slorach's eyes as he made his accusations. "Oh, no. I don't think so. You did not see and hear him, Mr. Murdoch…er, William. He presented it as the crowning proof of my guilt." She looked around. Dyer Lane somehow looked different than the last time she was here, despite it being the same factory smells and the same brick tenements; today the walls seemed to loom ominously over her. She pointed to their destination. "There it is. I tied up the pony and gear on the left where there was a little shade."

William saw one of the problems right away—there must have been six other one-horse conveyances on the narrow lane. One probably looked as much like another, meaning that no one would find Julia's rig remarkable for any reason. "I don't suppose you paid a few pennies to a street urchin on Friday to mind your horse?"

She shook her head. "We are going to number twelve, on the fourth floor, door 17." William secured the pony and came around to her side. Instead of merely handing her down, he picked her up by her waist and swung her over the side of the carriage platform. It seemed natural for him to do so, and for her to put her hands on his shoulders.

In that moment she was transported—back to when she first met him, under tragic, gruesome circumstances. Back then she already had an inkling her marriage was turning out to be one of distant affection, a boring routine after less than three years. Her once dynamic and garrulous husband lost interest in his domestic life, focusing his energy instead on gentlemanly pursuits of cards and clubs. He'd even eschewed their once-mutual enthusiasm for reading or lectures on new scientific developments. Oh, they still went to all the 'right' social events, the theatre, the opera, the concerts, but the intensity of his interest was definitely not on their marriage. In that, her marriage was similar to most of the other women she knew. In contrast, William and Liza Murdoch were newly-weds of less than three months, clearly in the first flush of marital bliss. Julia had admired the couple for their warmth and sweetness, something which never diminished, even through their travails until Liza's awful death.

Julia also admired William's friendship with and loyalty to his wife, and apparent imperviousness to temptation.

None of that erased the truth: from the first time she saw him, she knew… she just _knew_ —William Murdoch was _the one_. The stiff and proper, tea-totaling, oh-so serious, _married_ , Catholic, school teacher, was the one, completely unattainable man she was undeniably attracted to, mind, body and soul. When she realized it, the power of it rocked her to her core, and sent her scurrying away so she could take a clean, guilt-free breath again. She never let on, never wished to disrespect him, his lovely wife, nor humiliate herself by disclosing her unwanted yet persistent feeling that in this life her one true match, her ultimate happiness, was an unrealized fantasy. She blocked the thoughts, refused to indulge in childish, romantic longings and firmly put those feelings aside. She thought perhaps they died their inevitable death.

But there was Julia, wrapped up in his strong arms so close she could smell the soap he used, see his long black eye lashes make shadows on his cheeks, her heart fluttering wildly. From one heartbeat to the next, the tremendous gift of recognition, of connection, strung between them. Their eyes met and stuck there, until William blushed (or at least she thought he did) and released her.

It had all lasted only a few seconds. Julia was unsure if it happened at all, but then she stole a glance at her companion. He seemed to be all calm and business like, except Julia saw a small quirk in the side of his mouth and his hand brush his forehead. _He felt something too!_

Julia took the lead up the narrow stairs, so that she could hide her face and gather herself to speak with Katie. William followed two steps behind, up the four flights, the air hotter and more oppressive with each storey, the smell of onions and cabbage permeating every floor. She listened at number seventeen, heard the sounds of children and their mother, then knocked on the door, hoping Katie's common law husband was not there and still at his job until quitting time at six. That gave her and William barely thirty minutes.

"Wot is't?" Katie's voice came through the door.

Julia pounded again, not wanting to say her name in case that ensured Katie would never open. There were scraping and shuffling sounds, then the door creaked open, revealing half of Katie's Tough's pale face.

"My God! Wot are y' doin' here?" Katie's voice was a hiss, her eyes wild. "Why'd you bring a copper, another one of them detectives? If Jimmy sees you…"

Julia made sure her foot was between the door and frame. "Katie, please. This is my friend, Mr. Murdoch. He is a teacher, not the police. I must speak with you, starting out with how are you? Are you alright?" She did not have to fake any sincerity—she was indeed concerned about Katie—relieved she was there and alive for starters. When she got a nod and an "OK" out of her, she smiled reassuringly at Katie. "Mrs. Tough, may we come in please? I have some questions about what you told the police when they asked you if I was with you on Friday."

William hung back, letting Julia take the lead, but Mrs. Tough kept eyeing him instead. "Are you sure you ain't no copper? Y' look like one, although I have t' say you're a slight more bang up t' the elephant than most."

William had no idea what that colloquialism meant, but got the gist. "Mrs. Tough, I assure you I have nothing to do with the constabulary; I am merely escorting Nurse Ogden. We have come all this way just to see you. Won't you please speak with her?" William entreated kindly, using his most charming expression, the one he usually reserved for the most difficult mothers of the most difficult students at Sommerbank Academy. He held his breath and his smile. _It almost always works…._ The door opened and she came out into the hall… _And there it was_ … Katie flicking her eyes left and right before settling her arms across her bosom protectively.

"I got two minutes 'afore my husband'll be back an' I don't need him seeing you here. Nurse Ogden, I am so sorry, but what's so important?" Katie looked skeptically at William then searched Julia's face.

"Please, Mrs. Tough…Katie, can you just please tell us exactly what you told the officer who interviewed you?" Julia asked, her gaze never leaving Katie's face.

"They comes pounding on my door, jus' like you did. I thought you sent 'em to arrest Jimmy for hittin' me! Did you?" Her eyes creased in anger until Julia shook her head and reassured her _'No.'_ "Then they was askin' about you. But I could not tell them you was here Friday, not in front of Jimmy, not when he was still so sore about losin' the baby. He'd come back you see and I din't want him t' leave again. So I had t' tell 'em 'no.' " She smiled a bit, her face pinking up. "My Jimmy, he act'ally sent them coppers on their way, sayin' he was with me the whole time and for them t' mind their own knitting." She lowered her voice to a bare whisper.

William and Julia looked at each other. "My goodness. I see chivalry is not yet dead," Julia mumbled, careful to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

William spoke up. "Mrs. Tough, there has to be a way for you to tell the truth to the constabulary. You may not know this, but Nurse Ogden's husband, Dr. Walters, was killed on Friday, right about the time she was helping you with your, er….troubles. She needs you to confirm she was with you…"

Julia saw Katie's face freeze, then fall. "Oh my, I'm so very sorry. I, umm, don't read the papers." All her defensiveness melted away, tears springing to her eyes in sympathy. "So much death…" She grabbed Julia hands and held them. "Listen, I can't do that now—I can't have Jimmy find out you was here!" Her voice remained tight and scared.

"Mrs. Tough, you can do it in a way that your husband need never find out." William said gently. He hoped that was true, sensing that was the only way this woman was going to cooperate. Beside him, Julia was intently focused on her patient, seemingly to _will_ the woman into agreeing. "We can have an officer come by…"

" _No! Don't you dare!"_ The hiss was back. "I will take care of this, I promise, because you took such good care of me, Nurse Ogden, but you have t' go. _Now!"_ With that, Katie vanished behind her grimy wooden door.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **~ Station House No. 4**_

Afternoon light did not penetrate the interview room where suspect and interrogator squared off on either side of a wooden table. Mrs. Kingman was sipping tea in Detective Slorach's office a few yards away, which was just enough pressure to get her husband chattering like a magpie once offered the promise his statement would remain confidential as long as he told the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Inspector Lamb was flummoxed by the story Mr. Kingman was selling. After admitting he slipped away from the shooting club for a round of gambling in one of the property's small outbuildings followed by an assignation with the wife of his business partner, Kingman was still holding something back. Lamb could not figure out what could possibly be even more sordid which needed to be hidden.

Marshall Kingman was adamant: "No, inspector, I did not think Joseph Walters was suicidal! That is ludicrous. He was upset that I was pressuring him, quite naturally… grumpy perhaps, but he made no despondent statement to me."

"But he discussed his Will with you. Did that not seem odd?" Lamb questioned.

"Yes! He told me about his insurance policy and changing his Will." Kingman scoffed, his blonde hair unevenly raked across his head after so many times pulling his fingers through it in frustration. "He thought that I'd be satisfied his debt to me was going to be paid no matter what, by making it all legit that way. I told him that was not good enough, so two weeks ago he said he'd work something else out, and yes he seemed a bit off his feed after that, but I thought he was just trying to manipulate me. I do not know how he was getting the money!"

"So you admit you were skeptical you'd get paid by your deadline after all. You did not see how he was going to do it?" Lamb's thoughts were trying to sort through every fact he knew so far from the case, all the time-lines and witness a statements. "Mr. Kingman, you are almost the only one who directly benefits from Dr. Walters' demise. His scheme for legitimizing your loan to him and guaranteeing you'd be paid has worked perfectly. That is a powerful motive to kill him."

"Inspector, really!" Kingman whined. "First he told me he was going to borrow the money from his father in law. Then he came back and said that was no longer the plan and came up with the insurance and Will scheme. Then he said never mind, he'd get the money after all…it's just that …" Kingman stopped dead, his round face getting choleric with distress and his eyes showing too much of the whites. "Well, he told me his father in law was not too long for this world…."

Lamb just stared back as he let the silence build. "So what did you think?"

Kingman burst out with it. "I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, inspector, but when I heard that there was a doctor shot dead and it was at the Ogden house, I did not think suicide…. Er…actually my first thought was Joseph had killed Dr. Ogden."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **~ Cabbagetown**_

Wordlessly, Julia and William descended the stairs to retrieve the pony trap, moving off in the opposite direction from which James Hammond was going to make his way home. Once clear of the narrow laneways, William headed west towards Sherbourne. Next to him, Julia was silent, so he let that be, assuming she was still processing her conversation with Katie Tough. At least he hoped it was that and not that she was upset with him for manhandling her out of the trap like that. _What were you thinking?_ he asked himself. _I have no idea where that impulse came from. I must figure out a way to apologize that does not embarrass either of us…_

 _Of course,_ his other, inner voice whispered, _you know knew exactly where the impulse had come from_ …roaring up at him from some unnamed primal place within. He'd always enjoyed a particular intellectual spark which flared between them when they interacted—sustained over about six years of their acquaintance. Julia was an intelligent, beautiful woman who had been more important to him than he realized. She hadn't just been a nurse to him and Liza—she had been a true friend to them both, and he had missed her.

In all that time it never occurred to him to _want_ her…

The whole notion was outrageous and improper in the extreme. He grunted inwardly, knowing he was being love-struck ridiculous, just like his ward, Jack Brown, who was mooning over a girl in the candy shop the boy had never even spoken to. William knew such immature flightiness did not sit well on a man of his own age and station. He stole a glance at Julia, a lift in his heart betraying whatever it was he was feeling in her presence, and vowed he would never humiliate either of them by allowing the subject. He had a plan to restart his life which did not include Nurse Julia Ogden. He tightened his fists on the reins and went back to the more immediate problem: how to clear her name. Just to be safe, he thought he'd better revert back to calling her by her professional title.

"William?" she asked.

Just the way she said his name….his resolve to maintain distance sailed away. "Yes, Julia?"

"I am concerned that Katie is still in danger from her husband. I think before we explain the situation to the constabulary and have them get her statement, it is only right that I make arrangements for her to be safe." She ran several ideas over in her head before a smile erupted from her lips. "I can ask Mrs. Carter if she can find a place for Katie and the children in Hamilton, perhaps even a job in her tobacco factory," she said excitedly. "They can be on a train tonight. Mr. Crabtree explained I still have some money of my own to underwrite it." Julia beamed in delight. "Yes! It is perfect."

"What if she declines?" William frowned. "Worse yet, you could get charged with bribing a witness," he cautioned.

Julia hadn't thought of that. "I have to trust her to tell the truth no matter the consequences…that is also why I feel obligated to offer her safety to mitigate those consequences, whether she takes me up on it or not."

"' _The truth is the rock upon which we must stand, no matter the consequences,'"_ William quoted under his breath, then repeated when she asked him to. "It is just something I learned a very long time ago from one of my first teachers. His words are the words I recall whenever I have a difficult decision to make." _It was only much later you learned how painful and how much sacrifice came from absolute truth at all times,_ he reminded himself.

He halted the pony at a large intersection for the north-south city artery of Sherbourne Street. "Left towards Detective Slorach or right towards your home?"

"First we stop to see Mr. Crabtree about exactly how to go about selling the remaining stocks, then home, please, William," she said, spontaneously taking his elbow and smiling a little. _Perhaps I can persuade Mr. Crabtree to bring me a dram of Scotch, by way of celebration._ "Soon this will all be behind me."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	12. Chapter 12

**~Chapter Twelve~**

 **~ Station House No. 4, six o'clock**

Everyone in the bull-pen heard the door slam shut, sending constables to bury their faces in files or find an excuse to go investigate someone or _something_. Inspector Lamb was generally even-keeled and mild-tempered, but was known to have a volatile streak: station house gossip was he nearly came to blows with his former superior, Inspector Cassidy, over a case. John Hodge, who had been at Station 4 since the 1870's and knew a remarkable number of officers, remained tight-lipped and loyal as ever about every man who had ever been a member of the outfit, quashing any such talk swiftly and as sharply as possible whenever it arose. The men respected Hodge; however that never stopped them from being leery on those odd occasions when Inspector Lamb was on a rampage. _Like now._

"Detective! Hodge! Higgins! In here." Lamb called out from his office. He started talking rapidly before they even got fully inside. "Mr. Kingman is still writing out his statement. Higgins: Please get Burke to escort Mrs. Kingman back home with our compliments. Make sure her husband sees her with an officer—I want to keep the pressure on him. Then come back. Hodge? You and Higgins work together, take some men, no one is going home! Relieve the next shift from foot patrol tonight if you have to. I need you to confirm Mr. Kingman's alibi—get the names of every man he says he played cards with and get their signed statements, and go visit his lady friend—discreetly of course, and get in writing if she can confirm his story. See if he had any other un-witnessed time period on Friday with enough time to have shot Dr. Walters, including from the end of his card game to the first kiss with his lover. I want to know where he was minute by minute… _Understand?"_

He glared at them. "Go! Now!" He actually made a 'shooing' motion to get them out of his office. "Slorach, shut the door!"

Slorach winced. _This was not good, not good at all._ "Sir?" he ventured, trying to understand why his boss was so beside himself. That detective shield was slipping from his reach. "You think Mr. Kingman shot Dr. Walters?"

"Alister Gordon's office just sent a messenger to me. It seems their own investigators also learned Mr. Kingman was not shooting skeet as he claimed, and they also want me to go pick up Dr. Walters' body and take it back to the morgue to test out some theory about him being shot, not with a hand gun, but with a rifle from across the street!" Lamb nearly growled that out. "This is based on some supposed mathematically calculations that teacher, Mr. Murdoch, made, and a hole in some lace, of all things. Gordon thinks he is going to run this investigation." That rankled Lamb more than he'd like to admit. "Well he is not the crown prosecutor any more to give me orders!"

"Shot from across the street? From where?" Slorach was trying to visualize the area.

Lamb slapped the pages on his desk. ""Their theory is that Mr. Kingman, who is an excellent shot it seems, took a .22 long rifle to shoot Dr. Walters from a distance, thus explaining lack of powder burns, lack of shell casing and lack of witnesses to anyone coming and going from the Ogden residence. As for from where….supposedly from the roof of a house directly across the way. I will be sending you back to double check that. My guess it is only a preemptory move on behalf of the defense to muddy the waters. Gordon is a wily old fox at that." He got up out of his chair. "Julia Walters is still our best suspect since she lied about where she was and has not corrected that lie; but with no physical evidence, as much as I want to, I am reluctant to make an arrest." Lamb began pacing in front of his desk. "Kingman's statements got me thinking. What if we have this all wrong? What if, instead of Mrs. Walters, it was Dr. Ogden who killed his son in law? The motive is the same—anger and revenge for bankrupting his daughter, getting the debt settled."

"But sir! Dr. Ogden was with his own physician, a Dr. Roberts, who confirmed that!" Slorach was also having uneasy feelings. "You said it yourself, sir. The widow…"

"Dr. Ogden is wealthy enough, and has enough police knowledge to have paid someone to do it. Truth be told he is a cold-blooded bastard at heart, always was. Think of what he told us—from a certain angle, one can make the case that his refusal of a loan to his son in law might have been the tipping point for someone to commit murder, making a motive even for his own daughter. Don't you agree?" Lamb finally stood still with his hands in his pockets to help him get a grip on his agitation. Outside his glass door, he could see a commotion was brewing by the desk, disrupting Hodge's organizing of the men to go out and check on Kingman's whereabouts. He dropped his attention from it, trusting Hodge to take care of it. _It will be his new job soon, anyways…_

Slorach was irritated at having his case go sideways on him, and felt it necessary to point out his boss was letting the pressure get to him. "Inspector, if you go that far, then you might as well speculate Marshall Kingman or Mrs. Walters paid someone to do the shooting! That Dr. Walters was indeed suicidal as his wife proposed and either the housekeeper or grounds keeper have been lying about finding the pistol …" he said sarcastically. "Or you can decided he went so far to pay someone to shoot himself dead!" Slorach appealed to his superior, trying to get control back of the direction of the case. "It seems unreasonable…"

"Yes!" Lamb shouted, silencing his detective, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Why, yes! Slorach. Get that copy of the Will and read it closely. Go specifically to the conditions of payment." When Slorach did not seem to catch on, his agitation flared up again right as the telephone rang. "Some of them pay out more or less for an unnatural end and some pay nothing at all for suicide. Find out! Now!" he urged, before snatching the earpiece from its holder. "And get me the weapon, detective. We simply must have that pistol!"

He turned back to the desk and answered the telephone's jangle harshly. "Yes! Inspector Lamb here… Oh, sorry sir…Any developments? ...Well, you see…"

Slorach decided discretion was the better part of valor, and beat a hasty retreat to his own office. A call from Chief Constable Giles was not going to make Lamb's mood any brighter.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 **~ Rosedale, seven o'clock**

Dennie greeted Julia and William with an update: Joseph's sister was coming in on the last train from Ottawa, arriving at eleven thirty-five tonight. The three of them sat with Mrs. Hastings in the Ogden kitchen over cups of tea and plates of cold chicken, with all their notes spread amongst the crockery and silverware. William agreed to organize their data, placing his calculations on a fresh piece of paper to guide the coroner or whomever was going to need the information to officially confirm his and Julia's findings.

They were just getting going when the telephone rang. Mrs. Hastings made to answer it, but Dennie shushed her, saying: "I still have a bit of energy left—you eat."

Dennie came back in a short moment. "It's Mr. Gordon himself who has called, not an assistant. He asks to speak with you now. 'Immediately' is what he said. He seems rather peeved," Dennie reported. "Oh, he was polite and correct about it, but it is really an order..."

"I understand." _Being ordered around by a man was nothing new._ Julia's fine mood soured the closer William drove the pony towards Rosedale, because it meant closer to having to deal with her father. She was very glad he was nowhere to be seen. Addressing Mr. Gordon's displeasure was about all she could handle.

Julia rose to go to the telephone. "Would you mind waiting until I am finished with Mr. Gordon?" She made a face, "Or rather until he is finished with me?"

"Of course," William said distractedly. He was busy sketching out a grid to collect his calculations, placing each value in a box in his neat script. "Mrs. Hastings, I seem to have forgotten to take a measurement. With your permission, I would like to go back into the consultation room if I may?" Leaving the two remaining ladies to their meal, his own appetite forgotten, William made his way from the back of the house, through the door separating the family quarters from the medical practice. He passed by Julia who was red-faced and uncharacteristically silent as she pressed the ear piece tight against her head while frowning at a photograph of her, her husband and her father which used to be hanging in the hall. William examined the picture: He assumed Julia turned it over, since the rest of the family pictures were taken down or covered out of respect for the dead. He gestured with his measuring tape, receiving a nod from Julia as permission to go into the room.

William had forgotten to measure the size of the window. It was simple enough to do. As he measured off width and height of the opening then re-measured for anything lost when the window was fully deployed open, he heard Julia and her father talking, their voices rising quickly. It was impossible not to overhear, so he made as much noise as he could to alert them their privacy was compromised. He waited until a lull in their conversation before clearing his throat and going back into the hall. Dr. Ogden's back was retreating away from his daughter, who remained planted by the telephone.

"I am sorry you overheard any of that, William. My father has been impossible lately. Please excuse him. I attribute it to the shock of Joseph's death." Why she felt it necessary to defend her father was beyond her, since he'd been horrid again in a failed attempt to assuage his guilt. _At least this time I did not scream at him like a fish-wife—Father can thank Mr. Murdoch hovering in the next room for that!_

He came next to her and reached up to remove the offending photograph from her hands. "It is of no consequence, and forgotten already. Your father is looking for answers, grasping at straws perhaps."

"Precisely!" What she thought was: _My father feels guilty for making the financial disaster which my husband created, ultimately worse by not covering the debt, so instead of acknowledging that_ …

"What did Mr. Gordon say, if I may ask?" William was curious what could have silenced her so effectively.

"Actually, much as I expected." She kept herself from sighing. "You were right: he warned me that offering anything to Mrs. Tough, even having gone to see her, can be interpreted in a bad light. He chastised me for being naïve," she frowned disgustedly, "much as that awful detective did. However, I do feel vindicated by taking on my own inquiry, with your help, of course, because Mr. Gordon continues to believe the constabulary is intent on arresting me if they do not accept our theory against Mr. Kingman."

His head swiveled sharply. "You might still be arrested?"

"Unfortunately he cannot guarantee I will not, at least until Katie Tough vouches for me. Getting that cleared up is paramount. On the other hand, he also informed me that the Chief Constable weighed in on our evidence, including your trajectory calculations and that since _you_ helped craft our theory of the case, it was worth looking into—and told Inspector Lamb to follow up and get the coroner involved. He said that it was a good thing Chief Giles has such a high opinion of you, something about you playing chess… "

Julia saw that William paused and was staring in some sort of odd middle-distance, as if captured by a thought. She nudged him gently and offered to help set the picture down on the telephone table, but he would not let it go. "William?" She spoke his name. He turned his large brown eyes to her blue ones, his throat working. "What is it? Is something wrong?" she asked, quite curious about what he was up to.

"Julia…" he dragged each syllable out. "In this picture, look at how all three of you are dressed. You all wear long white coats over what appears to be grey clothing—your nursing dress has a long, straight skirt…."

"Yes, I see. We have a uniform of sorts…easy to wear and clean. Why?"

"All three of you have a stethoscope around your necks. Your husband was thin and upright, similar in build to yourself. In your heels, you are nearly as tall as he. His hair was longish and full, and he was clean-shaven. _You_ carry a Gladstone bag, do you not? In fact, from a distance, standing still, I imagine you are hard to tell apart." William's hand trembled slightly—he was not sure of he was excited or frightened.

"But William, I am a woman with long auburn hair, no one could…"

"Oh, yes they can. Especially when you wear your dark grey Bellevue cap." William was thinking rapidly now, automatically taking the photograph into the consultation room, and setting it on the desk. Julia followed, trying hard to see where he was taking this.

He looked out the window then back into the room, a scowl on his face, eye brows bunched together. "Look at the picture—your profile is not much different than your husband's. Julia, from that distance, in shadows, the shooter could have been aiming at you just as easily, and it _is_ your office. You yourself told me your father hardly ever uses it anymore."

Julia unconsciously stepped out of the line-of-sight of the window, her mouth getting dry and her palms sweating. "That is wild speculation! Really, I was hoping you would be more logical in this, certainly more so than my father!" Her hands were on her hips and her chin jutted out.

William was drawn to the blaze in her eyes. He almost stopped talking so that fire there could warm him, until fear for her overrode everything else. "Julia, hear me out. In all this, don't you think it is strange that James Hammond was the one who blocked your alibi, putting all this suspicion on you? Why should he come to the door saying he was with her all Friday, to supposedly protect her from the police? Why give Katie an alibi? The constables explained their business there. _She_ did not need an alibi. But what if _he_ did?" He took both her hands in his, trying to get her to see what he did. "Katie Tough was explicit that her husband disliked you…what if she wanted us away from her rooms this afternoon not as much for herself but for you? If he thought…"

"If he thought I performed an abortion on Katie, he'd be outraged, furious!" Julia was startled by the thought. "Midwives are often accused of that…"

"Do you know if he served in the military?" he asked.

"No, but he is from the country, probably used to shooting things….Ah!" Her face crumbled. " _Oh no._ There is a rifle in the house, I have seen it. _Oh William!_ " Julia's hands covered her mouth in fright. "If Katie says anything to him or if he finds out she plans to call on the authorities, it will not just be a beating she'll get—this time he really will kill her. Oh my God! _I have asked her to be in harm's way!_ We must act to save her life, but how?"

William spoke decisively. "We call Inspector Lamb. We call him and tell him to send constables over to your patient's rooms to take her and the children away and protect them, and detain Mr. Hammond." He waited for a nod from Julia, then went to the telephone and asked the operator to ring Station House No. 4.

He did not wish to alarm her or belabour the point; if Katie Tough died… _so would Julia's only hope of avoiding a murder charge!_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

 **~ Rosedale, eight o'clock**

Dennie watched Julia pace in the dining room while waiting for any word about Katie Tough. Julia took a circuit or two of the table, then a drink of her whisky, and repeated the process. That had been going on for nearly half an hour. Dennie saw no signs of inebriation…yet. _Jules can hold her liquor._

Beside her at the table, Mr. Murdoch was still and endlessly patient, refusing to leave until they heard back from the constabulary. Mrs. Hastings had turned up the gas-lights, bathing the old-fashioned wall-paper and furnishings in a warm glow, which also made the room stuffier. Back-lit by the illumination, Dennie noticed that Julia's hair was an unruly halo of strands which had escaped her braid, her blouse (sans jacket) was sweat-stained and her skirt was a wrinkled mess, while the teacher's dark blue suit, starched white cuffs and grooming remained immaculate, not even a 'five o'clock' shadow marred his handsome face.

She pulled herself away from examining her companions to remembering this very room from when she was a school girl and allowed to visit her best friend for two weeks in the summer. She always assumed the space was decorated to Mrs. Ogden's taste and was _au currant_ in its day, full of renaissance-revival rectilinear shapes, carved walnut and neoclassical columns. The floors had elaborate inlays along the edges which Julia was tracing with her feet as she paced around the heavy, square-edged table. The room has been elegant at one time—now it seemed sad and worn, wholly neglected since the mistress of the house passed away twenty years ago and it current inhabitants had no interest in fashionable dinner parties. Dennie even doubted the table had been set for more than four diners, in years.

 _If Ruby were living here, I know things would be different!_ Dennie smiled at the memories of the younger Ogden sister, before becoming more serious. _Ruby was the adventurous, romantic one of the family whose freedom was purchased, in large part, because her sister Julia toed the line._ Dennie knew Jules had a free spirit inside, a rebellious streak which had been subsumed by duty. All of that made her friend noble, but the circling was getting on her nerves.

"Jules! Please sit down. If you cannot be still, perhaps Mr. Murdoch will take you out on the back lawn to stretch your legs," Dennie suggested.

Julia did stop, just to stare at her friend as if she sprouted a second head. "A stroll, Dennie?"

"Mrs. Carter, for Nurse Ogden's, er… safety, I think she needs to remain indoors at the moment," William reminded the ladies. "Perhaps when this is…"

Dennie watched as Mr. Murdoch went from a calm, measured demeanor to something akin to panic. For a brief moment she thought he saw something dangerous, so she swiveled around to look where his eyes appeared to rest. _Nothing._ "Mr. Murdoch?"

William abruptly rose from the table to excuse himself. "Nurse Ogden, I must use your telephone!" With that he fled the room.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

From the hallway telephone William anxiously called the operator. "Yes, please connect me with the telegraph office…"

 _Good Lord!_ _Elizabeth Campbell!_ He'd gotten so wrapped up in the day's events he'd forgotten all about their plans to meet this evening. He was already too late to fetch her and this was going to make a bad impression on the woman he hoped to officially court! The completely suitable, quiet, even-tempered, very pious widow he had so carefully picked out, the one he needed to provide a stable home for Jack and Marguerite, return to lodging at Sommerbank and solidify his advancement to Headmaster…

"Yes. I wish to have a telegram sent, right away. Yes! I will pay the extra charge…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"What got into _him?"_ Dennie wondered offhandedly-Jules merely shrugged.

Julia turned to begin walking the room, when she caught herself, grabbed her drink and sat. Being alone with her best friend let Julia drop her defenses for a while. "Dennie. This is all too horrid, I have no words. What shall I tell Joseph's sister, Mary? She will be here in just a few hours." She gestured a circle with one hand, her other sloshing a whiskey. "I will not be able to keep all of this from her. She thinks that her brother was the victim of a senseless random crime. Senseless? Yes. Random…?" She shook her head vehemently. "I learned that my marriage to Joseph was a farce. Joseph betrayed me, stole from me, _lied_ to me, yet he did not deserve to die in my place…" Her fingers vibrated around the glass. "To make it worse, I was so furious at Father – I still am for his awful speculations and refusing to help Joseph, but I am so ashamed for thinking that is was he…" Julia choked up, downing the rest of the whiskey, hoping the burn would distract her. Julia was a mass of conflicting guilty thoughts and feelings she was trying to expiate by moving while she thought…and thought…and thought. _This is all my fault, my fault, my fault._

She did not realize she said this last bit aloud, until Dennie held her by the shoulders.

"Jules. What has gotten into _you_? Some man you do not really know, acts murderously on his erroneous beliefs—when all you ever did was help. There is nothing in that you are responsible for, do you hear me?" Dennie spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating every word while making sure Julia looked her in the eye. Dennie beheld her friend's gaze shift, some small amount of reason returning in there. "Mr. Gordon or the constabulary will call soon and tell you this nightmare is over. After that you can bury your husband, confront your father, regroup and perhaps celebrate that you helped catch Joseph's killer!"

"Celebrate?" Julia was aghast. "I don't know, Dennie."

"What is it?"

"Joseph is dead because of me. Can you deny it?" Julia knew it was true, why could Dennie not see that? "No?" she challenged, blinking tears away. Dennie was silent. _No response to that._ _Just as I thought._ To challenge cost her the last of her strength-Julia's energy felt abruptly sapped. Perhaps it was the adrenalin running out or the alcohol causing the enervation, but a wave of exhaustion was pushing her down.

"I should rest…" Julia announced numbly, thinking to go upstairs and lie on the guest bed. If the constabulary was coming for her they'd have to get her from there….

Dennie knew Jules needed to stay and fight. "Some other time," she urged, trying to rally her friend. "Then, yes, you can rest. Right now you have to be ready for anything. Meet them on your terms. Julia Ogden's terms!" Dennie thought her talk had been successful in rallying Jules, when her companion's face altered and her shoulders were thrown back. Behind her, she heard a door swing open.

"There are four officers here for you, Miss Julia." Mrs. Hastings was in the doorway, twisting her apron with a bleak expression on her face. "They ask you to come straight away to the kitchen. There is a police wagon out front." Directly behind her housekeeper was a uniformed constable.

Julia's heart was rattling in her chest. _I am going to be arrested._ Katie was gone—either dead or fled. The exhaustion from a minute ago was all but forgotten, yet she stalled, turned her back on the door way and the waiting police man. She touched the frizz of her hair, looked at the ruin of her skirt. Directly ahead of her was William Murdoch with only the corners of his eyes betraying any distress. The rest of him looked strong, felt solid. "A moment gentlemen. My hair is a fright," she stuttered out, embarrassed.

William came right up to her, took her arm, and whispered, _"Together."_

Side by side she went with William into a kitchen filled with constables, just as Mrs. Hasting said. Detective Slorach lead the bunch, looking grim. Oddly, his first words were a question to her. "Do you have anything you wish to say?"

 _Oh, so many things! Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth unable to form words for all that was spinning in her head._

One thing she just had to know. "Mrs. Tough, Katie. How is she? Has anything happened to her?"

"Please have a seat." He gestured to Julia to sit at her own table.

William and Dennie sat down beside her. Julia held her breath—the detective not answering directly ratcheted up her alarm.

"Constables, secure the property."

Julia stood back up, wanting to face the inevitable with courage. "Are you here to arrest me?"

"We will see," was the unsatisfactory answer.

The detective and his quarry squared off over a kitchen table this time. The kitchen door opened up and another constable entered, whispering in Slorach's ear and placing a twist of paper in his hand. The detective never took his eyes from hers. "Thank you Higgins. Er…good work."

Slorach ostentatiously cleared his throat and began: "Mrs. Walters…my constable just confirmed the evidence we need to make an arrest."

"What evidence?" William demanded. He was shocked and heart-broken that Julia was going to be charged with her husband's death, when he was sure she was innocent.

The detective motioned him quiet. "If you will let me finish. We were already on our way to Cabbagetown when a copper on patrol made a call-box report from Cabbagetown. They found Mrs. Tough in her rooms, badly beaten and left for dead."

From the buzz of thoughts inside her head, Julia forced out the most important words. "Will. She. Be. All. Right?"

"She is in hospital. She was conscious when they found her. She says her husband James tried to kill her—she actually figured it out by herself that _her_ husband shot _yours_ and they had some sort of donnybrook over it." Slorach grunted in admiration. "Looks like she put up one hell of a fight herself, by all accounts. Constable Higgins climbed a ladder which was against your neighbor's house across the street to see if it was possible to get to the roof with it—it is. On the roof he retrieved a .22 shell casing. No one would have heard anything with all the early firecrackers going off for Dominion Day and roofer pounding away. The physical evidence supports our new theory of the case and Mrs. Tough's statement. Therefore you are officially in the clear about that. Jimmy Hammond, of course the little coward, has fled. His real name is William James Hammond. The whole police service is after him right now so I don't imagine he'll get far, but we are going to have constables posted to protect you…"

Julia just sat there as Detective Slorach droned on, talking over exclamations from Mrs. Hastings, Dennie and William.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	14. Chapter 14

**~ Epilogue~**

 **~Rosedale**

 **Tuesday to Wednesday**

Julia absorbed the news that Katie would live and she herself was exonerated, as if it came from a great distance. Strangely, she did not feel relieved – quite the opposite. When she got moving again, Julia dismissed the constables from her home: since James Hammond knew the truth, Julia was hardly a target any more. Detective Slorach reluctantly decided Joseph's body could avoid further violations until after the wake. The papers would get their story with a slight modification mentioning a deranged husband trying to get back at the doctor after his wife had a miscarriage, with everyone's reputation (mostly) still intact.

When the authorities cleared out, Dennie made some telephone calls and sent off a flurry of telegrams to make all the necessary arrangement for Katie and her children to find sanctuary and a new life in Hamilton once the woman was recovered and ready. More practically, Mr. Granger went to fetch Mary Walters Mattingly from the train station (the woman having called to say she was coming tonight after all), taking William Murdoch home to the Flower Inn on the way.

William had made a formal good evening to her, promising he would pay his respects at the wake and the funeral. They stood there on the gravel drive, waiting for Mr. Granger to bring the trap along, her hand pressed between his, saying no words. She sensed how he re-cloaked himself in that formality, shutting off the immediacy between them in his preparation to leave. "I believe this is your handkerchief, William. I shall see if it can be washed and pressed into shape." They shared a grin at the shredded mess in her hands—it seemed she'd not been without it for five days now.

"That is quite all right. Perhaps you can keep it since it served you so well…" he said with a wrinkle at the side of his mouth. Julia had a silly flash of the reverse of a lady's favour given to her champion, as Mr. Murdoch said good night to Nurse Ogden, then rode off.

Close to midnight, Mrs. Hastings was in bed and Mr. Granger had not yet returned. Dennie was outside having a smoke. Julia stood in her consultation room with the window open; the guilt feelings overwhelmed her and she felt terribly alone. Trudging up the stairs, she decided to fix her hair, have a wash up and change her clothing to be less frightening and more presentable for greeting her sister in law. _Explaining things will be difficult enough without looking like a harried shop girl in the process_. Walking past her father's door she heard voices from within.

 _At this hour?_ Julia found herself getting angry. _Father, who managed to absent himself throughout the whole drama was entertaining, probably Mrs. Hill. How in the hell had he managed that?_

It sounded like they were arguing. Julia hesitated, wondering if she should apologize to him. After all, he did in fact suggest she was the target in the first place _. I have never been one to shirk._ _Best get it over now; it might help me figure out what to tell Mary when she gets here._ Shaking her head at the urge, she knocked at her father's door, seeking an audience. The voices stopped and Mrs. Hill opened the door.

"Come in Julia. I understand you have been cleared in Joseph's death." Her father waved towards a chair. He looked haggard, and Mrs. Hill looked exasperated.

Julia chose to stand. "Yes, Father, I have. I wish to apologize for accusing you of contributing to his death." She got that out smoothly enough, considering they were not used to apologizing to each other. Her father's face showed surprise, but he said nothing.

She ignored Mrs. Hill, hoping the woman's presence would keep them from erupting at each other. "I wish you had told me what Joseph had done…" she was able to continue, calmly. "It seems Joseph betrayed us both—he was not the man either of us believed him to be. I am still angry with you for not giving him the money, but I suppose I will get over it, in time. I am sure you had your reasons—perhaps you had an inkling about his character that I neglected, or overlooked." Her father still said nothing. She stood quietly until the silence unnerved her. She pursed her lips, refusing to say 'good night' to an impossible, irascible man, and turned to leave.

"Tell her." Mrs. Hill's voice suggested.

Julia turned around. "What?"

"Lionel, you _must_ tell her." Mrs. Hill firmly insisted. "Now. It is only right that you do." She drove a fierce look at Julia's father, who still refused to speak.

"Tell me what, Father?" _What could possibly be so important that it needs to be dealt with now, and to which Caroling Hill was privy?_ Her head went from Father to Mrs. Hill and back again, witnessing some silent power struggle between them. _An hour or so ago, Dennie told me, I needed to be ready for anything—so what was this?_

Mrs. Hill broke the tension. " _Tell her or I will!"_ Then took herself out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Lionel Ogden and his daughter to settle the matter between them.

"What is going on Father? Tell me why you want to see me; I am tired and I have had enough today." She fold her arms and raised her chin to show she was an equal. "I have a few minutes now. Tell me or not."

His voice was hoarse. "You must have noticed that I have not quite been myself lately, Julia?"

Julia thought about it. He did seem frailer, had a worsening tremor in his hand, his voice was weakened, his breathing shallow and more laboured. She gave her answer as if it was a quiz from medical school.

"Julia, I have Charcot's disease." He said this flatly without inflection.

At first she did not understand. "What? You have what…? Is that why you wanted Joseph to take over the practice? Why did you not tell me?!" _Oh my God—first my husband, now my father?_ "How long…?"

"How long do I have, or how long have I known? I have consulted with Dr. Roberts for about four months. There is no cure, you know. I may not have much time—it will consume me, claim my mind in short order."

He held up his hand to fend her off. Julia felt that racing in her heart, the cold wash over her. She used the bedpost to steady herself.

"I asked Joseph to help me end my life—that was the bargain we struck. I would bail him out financially if he would arrange my death. We agreed on a heroin overdose." Her father said that as if it was an exchange about new carpeting and he was proud of the pennies he saved. "That is what I kept back from the constabulary when they questioned me. We were going to have it done this week at the lake house while Joseph and I were out there and you remained in the city. Mrs. Hastings would come out to find me dead of an apparent heart attack. Dr. Bradley or Joseph would rule the death heart failure, then cremation would destroy all evidence."

Julia's fingers hurt from grasping the bedpost. "Father, that is…"

"Julia. I know what to expect. I did not want that for the two of us—Caroline and myself. Not after we only just found each other again. I did not wish to burden you or her with my care. It was a hard decision, but I believed it was the right one—for everyone." Lionel Ogden's voice crackled.

Julia was beyond outraged. She thought her husband's betrayal was bad enough already—this was of a wholly different, evil order of business. "He agreed to this?! My husband agreed to kill my own father!? _For money?"_ Her stomach twisted, bile rushing up her throat. _He agreed to this macabre scheme of my father's to get his hands on more of my inheritance._ A new blow struck her: _That was why he all of a sudden did not want to have children! That is why refused sexual relations without birth control!_

"Father, how could he…how could YOU?" Her rage was intense enough to overcome all else, the shout rang in her ears.

"He changed his mind—he turned me down! Julia did you hear me? He backed out."

Julia stood there, chest heaving. She felt the blood pound in her arteries and veins. "He agreed to do that in the first place—and you! You temped a weak man with money. I hate you for it, I hate you both!"

Her father gathered himself up, managing to grab part of her skirt and hang on. "Julia, I said listen to me! I said he backed out! He was agreeable to help me out of kindness, out of mercy. But as soon as I attached a _quid pro quo_ – money in exchange for his help, he refused. I was the one who was angry with him for backing out. Julia - he was honourable at least in that. I will not have you thinking he was utterly immoral or without scruples." He was gasping at this point.

"I cannot believe you did this. You are a calculating bastard," she swore at him without a second thought.

"I am just a man, Julia. Full of foibles and errors. Caroline has helped me reckon with some of them. I am glad Joseph turned me down—Caroline has shown me that life can still be precious. She has brought some measure of happiness to me, here at the end of my life, and she is willing to take a risk on the journey with me….to the end." He was pleading now. "Talk to me. If we had talked, you would have known. I should have trusted you instead of Joseph, that you would not have failed me. I should have known I could have put my life, my final moments in your careful hands."

"What do you mean? How could you possibly think of asking me to end your life?" The room seemed to tilt, making everything strange and unreal to Julia's senses. She felt detached from reality in the face of all of what her father just told her. She could not speak at first, licking her dry lips with an even drier tongue to get enough spit for talking. She painfully unwound her fingers from the bed post and stiffly made her way to the door.

"My lovely Julia…" he pleaded again.

"Daddy…" With her back still to him, she said simply: "This subject is closed between us. I must get ready for my duties."

With that, Julia left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 _ **~ One week later:**_

 _ **~ Rosedale**_

Dennie was packing up for her train trip back to Hamilton. The intervening week had been nerve-wracking on _her,_ never mind on Jules. There was now only frosty correctness between father and daughter, accompanied by a thawing of Julia's attitude towards Mrs. Hill; none from Mrs. Olave Hastings in that quarter, especially since Dr. Ogden declared he and Mrs. Hill were planning to wed quietly, despite his poor health—or rather because of it—after the new year. Dennie stayed on for another week to help, however Jules had packed none of her husband's things away, merely sending some family keepsakes back to Ottawa with his sister after the funeral. Jules herself was planning a trip to Ottawa the end of the week to visit her husband's grave and select the headstone.

Dennie had expected her friend to have been emboldened by recent events, how she fought against the odds to get justice for her husband and to save her own skin…instead Jules seemed to…shrink a little day by day. She had given up arguing with her about coming to Hamilton: ' _My patients need me, now more so than ever,'_ Jules had defended. _That cannot be all it is…_

"Jules… Penny for your thoughts?"

Julia put down the items she had rearranged for the umpteenth time. Among them was a certain linen handkerchief Julia had taken to keeping on her dressing table. Dennie was leaving and now she was on her own, and the idea was terrifying. _My thoughts? I am ashamed of my thoughts._ Julia kept her gaze down, hoping to avoid speaking, struggling with a question she felt incapable of resisting.

"Dennie? I can't help thinking what it will be like to be a widow. I don't think I can sleep in the bed we shared…Despite the state of our marriage, I am not sure how I feel about being alone without Joseph. So many things are running through my mind. How have you borne it all, really?"

Dennie thought she understood. Widowhood brought a unique position to the modern woman if she could be economically self-sufficient and brave enough— _autonomy_. "It was hard… at first, to claim my place. Now I find a great deal of freedom in the unmarried state. You know, I did love my husband but he was ill-suited to the family business so I ran the operation for him, discreetly from the background of course while he lived, despite how I complained about it. Now I am on the production floor every day— _in trousers!"_ She chuckled. "My grandfather rumbles, yet he cannot forbid me. Jules, in a while, you will realize you are free."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 _ **Garden District**_

 _ **~The Flower Inn**_

William had one small oil lamp lit at his drop-leaf desk so no one would know he was up so late. He certainly did not wish to disturb Jack, sleeping in the adjoining room. Several blotted pages lined the wastebasket, as evidence of his poor progress. He was generally an efficient correspondent in matters scientifical, was a clear communicator in the classroom, had even had a monograph or two published. However, writing a letter of apology to a lady was outside his area of expertise. Several "Dear Elizabeth" and "My Dear Mrs. Campbell" salutations never made it past the next line or two. He was aware Mrs. Campbell felt slighted at being stood up – he had already apologized in person and taken her to a battery exhibit followed by an excellent tea at the Flower Inn as a way to make it up to her, anything to win her good favour back. A hand written note of the proper tone expressing his feelings was required, or so he was given to understand, except he seemed unable to produce said required missive. He also broke a nib. The whole thing was disturbing his peace.

Sighing, he selected a fresh sheet of paper, placed it at the proper angle and made sure his pen and ink were well matched. He moved his cuffs up, dipped the nib, tapped, then began with his best intentions…

…Only to find himself writing:

 _ **Dear Julia…**_

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 **Authors' Historical Note:**

(The internet is a wonderful thing!) I wanted to find some actual event that I could tie into my story…. In Ontario 1898, William James Hammond killed his common law wife, Katie Tough, and was hanged for it. In my A/U, Katie does not have to die… but someone had to (murder mystery and all) and someone had to be the bad guy so…

 **Dear Reader** : You made it to the end! Yea! Thank you for coming along for the ride. I hope you enjoyed the story, and what I have done with the dialogue and the characters. I usually give myself a writing assignment for each story I write—I try to do something new each time. This time I went back to the classic "Murder Mystery" formula and I wanted to see how much of the episodes' characters & pivotal plot points I could use and give new life to: for instance Clayton Bowles does not die, Lamb does not punch out his inspector and get fired; Hodge gets promoted; and I wanted Julia and William's lives to be different—yet the same. I trolled for dialogue I could import, re-purpose, or change the POV for.

So…. **1-800-How's My Writing?** Please "Like" my story (if you did) by making it a "Favorite" – even better, post a 'review.' What did you like? What did you hate? New readers, new voices, new POV encouraged—I accept all feedback positive or negative. Help me keep getting better as I teach myself to become a better writer. Thanx again-rg

P.S. Thanx to IBD and Mamadillo for the heads' up on spelling errors—between automatic spell check and those negative hallucinations it is indeed a challenge-tee hee-rg.


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